Trailing Ghosts
by LittleLotte17
Summary: "Alistair was a man haunted, and he knew it. He was plagued nightly by visions of ghosts and angels, demons and darkspawn, and Maker knows what else, but this...this was too raw, too real..." Takes place after DAO with the "Redeemer" ending choice.
1. Dream of screams

AN: Okay, well...this game has pretty much eaten my life, so I felt compelled to write a fic about it. I cannot promise fast/frequent updates because of school and the like, but I will certainly try. Other than that...enjoy! Btw, I think I ran into a story on this site that is going to seem very similar, at least at first, and I want to say right now that A) things will quickly become different and B) I thought of the premise for this story before I even knew that one existed. Don't want to step on any toes!

Rated M: just to be safe really, I don't want to have to go back and change it later.

Disclaimer: Bioware owns all the regular characters, but at least...half? we'll go with half, of Elemmire Cousland is mine!

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><p>It was early autumn and the sun shone down on the pillars and arches of the ruins of Ostagar in warm golden rays, dappling silently through the treetops. It could have been the scene for some kind of epic romance, if not for the hundreds of soldiers swarming its crumbling walls. But perhaps it was this throng of scared and desperate fighters that made the air hang thick with the scent of destiny. The strings of fate tightened around the old fortress, drawing in all the necessary players; calling out for heroes and villains, traitors, kings, and lovers alike.<p>

He was wreathed in the afternoon sunlight; it gleamed in his coppery blond hair like a crown upon his head as he stood alone: waiting. Had he always been here? He glanced about him at the broken columns of the abandoned temple that surrounded him like wizened lords, looking down on him with disapproval. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, a nervous habit the chantry had never quite managed to beat out of him. Wasn't someone supposed to be coming?

Dark storm clouds rolled in as a lone figure materialized at the base of the ramp leading up to where he stood. He watched its sluggish movements with apprehension, though he couldn't tell if it was excitement or fear that caused the strange flipping sensation in his stomach. There was something familiar about it, the shape of its long legs, the shade of its straw colored hair…The man had to bite back a sudden urge to reach out and hold this person who staggered up to him, so obviously full of pain.

He suddenly knew it was a woman, despite her closely cropped hair, he knew the curve of her hips, the feel of her skin, and the sound of her laughter. She was gripping her left arm tightly and her right leg trailed uselessly behind her. It was not until she stopped, just out of the reach of his arms, and looked him straight in the eye that he knew her name.

"Elemmire" He breathed, condemnation and redemption echoed in his voice simultaneously. It was both a soothing balm and a dagger in his heart to hear her name, even from his own lips…_especially_ from his own lips. He saw his own heartache at the word reflected in the depths of her wide blue-green eyes.

"How did _you_ get here?" she rasped, her breathing shallow and uneven.

"I don't know," he replied, eying her injuries with mounting distress. "I've always been here I guess…waiting."

She chuckled mirthlessly, "Yes, well, sorry I took so long, fighting an arch-demon doesn't exactly leave one fit to travel. Not even in the fade apparently."

"This is a dream?" he asked, startled.

"For you maybe," She said, still wincing in pain, "Ugh! Who knew death would hurt this much?" She groaned. "And to think-it seemed like such a good idea at the time." She gasped suddenly and fell to her knees, blood pooling around her. He made a move to go to her side, but she stopped him with a snarl.

"Don't touch me!" she hissed. She glared up at his panicked face with hate filled eyes, not even attempting to slow the blood flowing from her wounds now. She appraised him slowly, suspicion radiating from her form and bitterness twisting her mouth into a deep scowl. "Tell me, my love, is this reunion everything you hoped it would be?" she queried, her voice raw with physical pain and emotional anguish. She grasped at her throat and gurgled thickly as blood ran down her chin, it tinted her teeth an unsettling pink and she slurred slightly through the liquid as she continued, "Do I steal your breath? Do I stop your heart? Shall you swoon from the effects of your violent love for me?" Her lips curved into a smile as cold and cruel as a dagger's edge, "Or perhaps this _is_ what you were waiting for: the chance to see the fruits of your labors?"

"Ellie, _please_…I just want to help!" He almost begged her, as what little color was left in her cheeks swiftly faded. She crumpled to the ground and writhed in agony, her sharp cries piercing his flesh like arrows. He was beside her in a flash, kneeling in her blood and cradling her in his arms, despite her weak struggles against him.

"That's rich." she said; her voice barley a whisper now, "Help from a man who quit an unquitable order to become a wandering drunkard? Help from a man who abandoned his country and his friends in their darkest hour? No, no…I think I've had about as much of _your_ help as I can handle." She sighed softly, closing her eyes and leaning against the cool metal of his armored chest.

"I didn't have a choice." He told her.

"There is always a choice." She breathed, "Anora would have let you fight as a Grey Warden; she had her throne, her father, and your vow. It was in her best interests as well as everyone else's to have as many Grey Wardens as possible to face the Blight and she knew it. You _chose_ to leave."

"You betrayed me." He accused hotly, sounding like a petulant child, when really all he wanted was her apology, her absolution, her love.

"And you left me to die." She said simply; her voice soft and trailing away from him. "I think we're pretty even." She raised a pale hand, smeared with gore, and ran her fingers down the side of his face, her eyes seeking out his one last time, bleary and unfocused as they were. Her breathing slowed, then stopped and she sagged heavily in his arms. He crushed her to his chest and sobbed.

There had been no solace in those eyes, no forgiveness. He rocked her in his arms, willing her back to him, pleading without words for her to rescue him from the darkness welling in his own heart. But, just like before, she had left him, broken and alone. He barely noticed the rain as it washed her blood over the cool stones of the courtyard in long crimson rivulets.

Alistair awoke disheveled, sweaty, and still clutching a bottle of some rank smelling liquid. It had been a little more than half a year since the end of the Blight and the death of everything he had ever wanted. He had been in the Free Marches less than a week when he heard the news that Elemmire Cousland: the Hero of Ferelden, had died slaying the Arch-demon and ending the Blight. He had immediately gone out and gotten as drunk as possible and had stayed that way as often as his purse allowed for it.

He looked at his face in the mirror and a hollow, haunted man stared out at him through the murky glass. His hair was long and unkempt, his beard was matted and filled with various things he had sipped and spewed, and his hazel eyes seemed like bottomless pits.

Alistair remembered the dream in perfect clarity; the way she scorned the man he had let himself become, the disgust in her sapphire eyes. He glanced at the bottle in his hand, and threw it against the wall in fury. He watched the brown liquid trail down the stone in satisfaction before grabbing the slightly dull razor on his dresser and beginning the arduous task of shaving the filth from his jaw. He was sick of running from his past; from _her_. He had let everyone else control his life, and when none of them were left to order him about he had turned to drink to make his decisions for him. It had lost him everything. He grimaced: nothing was going to steal his choices from him ever again.

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><p>Five years hence, Alistair was wearily making his way down a steep gangplank. He squinted uncomfortably in the harsh morning light and ran a large calloused hand through his shaggy hair, sighing heavily; he hated ships. The quarters were always cramped and uncomfortable, there was no safe way to shave, unless you wanted to slit your own throat, and being surrounded by the endless blue-green of the ocean was like drowning in her eyes.<p>

A cool breeze brushed his face and roused him somewhat; he had never been much of a morning person. The air smelled of sea salt and fish, gulls cried mournfully and wheeled in long graceful arabesques through the cloudless sky, and all around him was the dull rumblings of people going about their lives. So, this was Highever. It was strange; these same sights could be found in Denerim, but somehow things just seemed…_brighter_ here. Everything was open and airy, the buildings might not be as grand as those in the capital, but they were clean and cared for, and the people milling about seemed generally cheerful and at peace.

"_Maybe I'll go to Highever with you, when you go."_ Her promise echoed softly in his mind. He hadn't known at the time that she was the Teyrn's daughter, but he knew it was her home, and that she had just lost everything; he had been moved that she wanted to share it with him. That he was someone she wanted beside her when she finally came face to face with her grief.

Alistair wandered aimlessly into the marketplace, not quite sure what he was looking for; the rumors said that a great monument to the Grey Wardens was here, in Highever, but none of them had said _where_. He felt a bit guilty that it had taken him so long to get here and honor Duncan's memory the way he swore he would, but… After the Blight, when he learned of Elemmire's fate, he just couldn't bring himself to see this place. It was her home, and somehow he felt the city itself would sense his crimes against its beloved fallen and cast him out.

"You look a bit lost there, Love. Need help findin' anything?" the question came from a rail-thin Elvin woman with graying hair and rosy cheeks. He returned her encouraging smile with one of relief and asked her about the memorial. "If it'd been a Mabari it woulda bitten ya!" she laughed, pointing up and behind him.

Sure enough, right in the middle of the square stood the towering figure of Elemmire Cousland, her stoic marble countenance watching over her city. He could make out a pair of broad shoulders behind hers and for a moment he scowled. '_If they put her back to back with that traitorous, lying, son of a-'_

But as he stepped back and around, to get a more complete view of the statue, Alistair saw that it was not Loghain keeping vigil with her, but _Duncan_. It was a very general likeness when compared to Elemmire's, but there was no mistaking that stern gaze, even if the stone could not portray the subtle tenderness that should be lurking there.

There was a painful clench in his chest; here they were, the only two people who, supposedly, had ever really given a damn about him, raised up and hero-worshiped by strangers who had never even met them. He supposed it should make him happy to see them thus, but all he could manage was a vague bitterness at the thought that they had both left him behind. All to protect him, _for his own good_; the words were bile that stuck in his throat. Because, as angry and betrayed as he had felt after the Landsmeet, he understood now that she had been trying, in a really stupid and infuriating kind of way, to shelter him from..._something_. And while he still couldn't figure out the logic behind her actions, he had found room in his heart to forgive her, even if it had taken her death and a year of getting piss-drunk to get there.

"Ya know, I never really stop to look at this thing, even though I pass it every day." The Elvin woman said, staring up at Elemmire. "She was quite lovely wasn't she?" He nodded silently and gazed up into the face that haunted his dreams.

It was just like her, down to the last detail. Her shoulders squared and her feet slightly apart in her typical, "you _really_ don't want to mess with me" stance, her short boyish bowl-cut hair, and…_Maker,_ how did they manage to carve those sad eyes out of cold white marble?

As his eyes drifted down the familiar shapes of her silverite armor, he found himself wishing the sculpture could move. He wanted so much for those firm lips to quirk suddenly into that teasing grin, her hands to fumble shyly with the buckles of her armor (or _his_ for that matter), but more than anything, he wished he could watch her run. He yearned to fall in step behind her, as he had so long ago at that doomed encampment, to listen to the rhythmic pounding of her footfalls, to watch the easy loping grace of her strong legs, and the hypnotic sway of her slender hips. He had found his home there, in her trailing footprints, and six years of feeling miserably lost had taught him that he was unlikely to find another.

Her heirloom shield was resting between her feet and he smiled briefly at the familiar twin laurels, she never fought with it, but it was always strapped to her back, weighing her down needlessly. When he had asked about it, she had given him a soft smile and said, _"It's my tortoise shell. It slows me down, but keeps me strong." _ Her arms were out stretched so her hands could cover the pommel of the Cousland family long sword that stood before her, and held between those fierce-looking gauntlets was… Alistair fell to his knees, whatever defenses he had built up during the long years without her suddenly crumbled as he buried his face in his hands.

There were thin fingers grasping at his shoulder, "Are you alright?" The older woman asked in alarm.

"…a rose?" He managed to get out, even though it felt suspiciously as if something was crushing his windpipe.

"Ah, y-yes…"The woman said, obviously confused, but at his imploring glace she did her best to explain. "It's her symbol, anythin' to do with the Hero of Ferelden has the laurels of Highever surroundin' a single red rose; ya must have _really_ come a ways if you don't know _that_."

"But…why?" he asked, his voice still sounding soft and shattered.

"Hmmm, I'm not sure, now that ya mention it. Of course, after the Blight there were all sorts of rumors flyin' about, but who knows what the truth is?"

"What kind of rumors?"

"Well, the 'official' one, if there's such a thing as an _official_ rumor, is that the bard travellin' with her had a vision of the Blight in which Lady Cousland was represented by a rose: the last hope for life bloomin' from our dead country."

"But you don't believe that?" He stated more than asked, a sad half smile forming on his lips as a mental image of Leliana's indignant face flashed through his mind. The elf shrugged noncommittally.

"Most of these things have a kernel of truth at their core," she said, "but I never put much stock into religious signs; stuff and nonsense if ya ask me." She paused and smiled wistfully, "Or maybe I'm just a hopeless romantic." Alistair felt his throat contracting again, yearning for her to continue, but dreading it as well.

"They say that the Lady Cousland's lover gifted her a rose as a symbol of his affection, common enough really and none too original if ya ask me."

'_Well, excuse me for being awkward.'_ He thought crossly.

"But then there was some kind of fallin' out…a betrayal I think. It must have been on his side, can't rightly see the great Hero of Ferelden doing anythin' like that."

Alistair almost snorted, '_If only you knew lady_.'

"At any rate," the woman continued, "he left her, and she was naturally heartsick over it. Yet, the Lady stayed steadfast and true to her love, despite his disloyal ways, refusin' offers from many handsome admirers, swearin' that she would have none of them, and remain a maid for the rest of her days."

'_Contrived nonsense_,' he thought to himself, despite the way his heart hammered painfully in his chest. '_Who would propose to the last proper Grey Warden in the middle of a Blight? Besides, she was probably warming her bed with that smarmy elf the night she realized I wasn't coming back_.'

"And as her comrades lifted her broken body from the top of Fort Drakon, somethin' fell from the remnants of her ruined armor; the very same rose, wrapped in white silk, pressed and preserved, and close to her heart. He abandoned her, but she carried him with her all the same. To the very end, her love was unwaverin', her heart pure. She waits for him in the Golden City, patient and loyal as ever, and eternal as the Maker himself in the abundance of her forgiveness."

So many things were welling up from somewhere deep within him, he felt his entire being clench at the sheer intensity of it. Alistair knew it was just a story, a trumped up mockery meant to sugar coat the bitter rinds of the life that he and Elemmire had lived in the hellish year and a half of the fifth Blight, but _Maker_, if it didn't make him ache for those long cold nights standing watch, the smell of campfire smoke, the sound of Leliana singing softly as she cooked dinner, Ellie's sleeping face illuminated by starlight. He pressed a forefinger and thumb into his eyes to bottle the betraying liquid that was threatening to rip from him in a very un-manly way. He felt the thin worried hand on his shoulder again and dared a glance up to see the kindness in the stranger's eyes. She reminded him of Wynne, and he leaned into her pre-offered maternal warmth just as readily as he had with that white-haired mage from what seemed like another life.

Across the market, his eyes lingered on a particular stall; he excused himself as she followed his gaze. He returned shortly, blushing slightly at the tender look of understanding that flooded the elf's features. She stood near him, close enough to offer comfort, but far enough away to give him privacy as he walked up to the base of the grand monument and placed a long stemmed rose at Elemmire's feet. It was that same dark scarlet as its shabby counterpart from all those years ago, the color of love, the color of betrayal, the color of blood.

"_Here, look at this. Do you know what this is?" he practically mumbled, placing the faded bloom in her hands with trembling fingers. He shifted nervously from foot to foot, kicking himself mentally for asking such a dumb question; he recalled his recent talk with Leliana…'_Well, at least I didn't ask her if she was female._' He thought ruefully as Elemmire gave him a questioning look._

"_Is that a trick question?" she asked, arching a thick blond brow and shooting him a rather puckish grin._

_It had been a bit droopy and slightly crushed by the time he had finally plucked up the nerve to give it to her. She had teased him at first, brushing away his fumbled attempts at being gallantly complimentary, but he had expected that to some extent, she never liked being fussed over and praised, even when she deserved it, which, in his personal opinion, was practically every day. He had chickened-out towards the end; defending himself with his usual self-effacing humor and backing away with cheeks as red as Leliana's hair, but the weight of the words he was still too scared to say seemed to shine through, because she spent the rest of the evening strangely quiet, staring down at the partially crumpled flower with soft eyes full of wonder._

"I never meant to leave," he told her quietly, "Not really…I was just-just _so_ angry." He paused for a moment to reign in his grief. "And when you never came for me, I thought…" He shook his head, there was no point in making excuses; he had left and she hadn't followed him: end of story.

"I'm sorry." He whispered, "I still can't fathom the reasons behind your actions, but I know you were just trying to do what you thought was best, as always." He sighed, feeling suddenly ancient and haggard, "I still-" he fumbled helplessly with the heaviest words of all, "There has never been anyone else… I doubt there ever will be. You're my…I only ever…" He groaned in frustration and ran a hand roughly through his shaggy locks; apparently even a statue of Elemmire was capable of transforming him into a jabbering fool.

He heard a soft sniffling sound and turned to face his Elvin companion; she was crying. She stepped up to him and gripped his hand fiercely. They stood there, silently gazing up into Ellie's stoic face, waiting for some kind of response.

"Do you think she ever forgave him?" he asked, after could have been years of reverent silence.

"I do." She said, squeezing his hand.

"Do you...really think she's waiting?" She squeezed harder.

"I know she is." He smiled at her shakily.

"Thank you." He reached into his pocket, pulled out a silver, and pressed it into her palm, "I know it's not much, but …_really_, thank you."

"That's not necessary, but you're quite welcome, Lad." She said, smiling as she tucked the coin into her apron.

"Alistair." He corrected.

"Alistair, then; it was my pleasure. My name's Rosyline."

"Thanks Rosyline." He said, a stronger smile stretching across his face. She gave his hand a final reassuring squeeze before turning to walk away. He watched her disappear into the throng of people milling about the square, before looking back up at the face of the one who had saved them all.

"I love you." He whispered; a final prayer he hoped would somehow reach her, wherever she was, "Always." Something in him seemed to loosen at his admission, slightly alleviating the painful tightness in his chest that had plagued him for nearly six years. He shifted his pack to sit more comfortably on his shoulder and set about finding an inn for the night.

He realized that he still hadn't paid his respects to Duncan yet, but he reasoned that his mentor would understand his need to collect his thoughts after nearly making an ass of himself in front of a large group of strangers. He had almost lost it when he was talking to Ellie, and somehow he didn't think Duncan would appreciate him wailing like a small child in front of what was basically his tombstone.

He was almost to the door of a promising looking establishment, when something small and frantic smacked into his thigh. It was a little boy, eyes wide with fright and panting heavily from running as he gazed up at Alistair from where he had fallen.

"Help!" the boy pleaded breathlessly, grabbing Alistair's hand and tugging him back in the direction he had come from.

"Steady there, Lad." The man admonished gently, "What's wrong?"

"There were men-angry men!" the boy cried, still pulling at his arm, "Nana told me to run and get help!" The part of him that had spent nearly six years in exile picking drunken fights and sleeping with one eye open in case of Crows wondered briefly if this was some kind of trap. Was Anora really still concerned that he was after her crown? But there was such an earnest look of desperation in the youngster's face that he found himself jogging lightly behind the child as he led him through a maze of back streets. He tried to tell himself that he was doing it solely out of moral obligation and not because the boy's wide frightened eyes were the all too familiar color of a tumultuous sea.

They moved into a sketchier part of the city, and at the opening to a particularly dark and foreboding alley Alistair could hear the raucous laughter of men and the muffled cries of a distraught woman. He handed the boy his pack and motioned for him to hide behind a few nearby crates, to which his young guide nodded silently and moved into the shadows.

Alistair tried his best to move silently as he pulled a long knife from the sheath at his hip. He thought he could make out three figures standing in the gloom of the alley huddled around something that was trembling violently on the ground. He quietly prayed that they were not well armed, as his own armor was what paid for his passage across the Waking Sea in the first place, and while he was by no means out of practice when it came to brawling, three on one when your best defense is a linen shirt and a knife…The odds were not in his favor.

"P-please!" he heard the woman sob, "I gave you everything I had- I swear!" The tallest of the thugs laughed and leaned down to grab the woman's wrist.

"I think you're quite mistaken, Lassie. I think there is a lot more you can offer…Each of us." He cooed, dragging her to her feet. There was a feminine whimper. "What do you think boys?" There was a chorus of coarse approval and Alistair's grip tightened on the hilt of his dagger. _'Pigs!'_ he thought furiously.

He tapped the tall one politely on the shoulder, giving the man a chance to turn around and utter a half-formed cry of surprise before Alistair's blade sank into his gut. The man on his right moved to draw his own weapon, but Alistair managed to back hand him across the face, sending the ruffian headlong into the stone wall of the alley. There was a sickening crack and the man slid to join his comrade on the dirty ground.

He turned to the woman, who was staring up at him, horrified. He was a bit put off by her apparent remorse for the men who had robbed, beaten, and almost defiled her, when he saw her raise a shaking hand to point behind him. Too late, he remembered there had been _three_ of them.

The bandit's mace caught him in the shoulder, a blow that would barely stagger him under normal circumstances, but without his armor it sent him to his knees. Alistair looked up to watch the fall of his own death blow, resigned to his fate. He wondered briefly if he would find himself again at Ostagar; if Ellie might be waiting for him this time.

Then came a fluttering of silken skirts and a flash of blades, the broken woman had transformed. Now she was all liquid movement and righteous fury as she cut her last assailant down. He suddenly found himself back in the Korcari Wilds, watching Elemmire kill her first darkspawn.

_He had braced himself against the horror he would see in the faces of the new recruits, and her reaction to it had him worried most of all. Despite Duncan's assurances that she was a force to be reckoned with, all Alistair could see when he looked at her was a lost little girl. It was obvious that up until now she had never so much as roughed it in the wild, let alone fought to the death with the most evil creatures in Thedas. What if she got herself hurt, or screamed, or, Maker forbid, started crying? If there was one thing Alistair had no idea what to do with, it was crying women. He needn't have worried. _

_She had fought like a woman possessed, her dual blades weaving effortlessly in a dance that drew evil to its end like moths to a flame. Her face was a mask of grim determination and the only time she made a sound was when an arrow nicked her thigh and she hissed in pain. Afterwards, she had calmly wiped her weapons on the grass and gave him a small smile that didn't quite reach those sea-storm eyes; he had stared at her with his mouth hanging open as wide as a fish out of water. She was amazingly gifted, she was calm and brave, she was sad and broken…and she absolutely terrified him. Because if this was how she fought when she was weary from travel and distracted by recent heartache…Maker save the poor bastard dumb enough to make her angry. _

The thug crumpled to the ground, like a puppet with cut strings, and the trampled woman looked down on his corpse with flinty eyes and spat on it in revulsion. Her shoulder length hair looked as if it had been some shade of blond before it became mussed and caked in dirt, her dress was simple, but of fine make, and though her face was pale from recent terror, there was some kind of radiant fury that rippled off of her being.

Alistair could only gape at her from the ground, his left hand gripping his slightly crushed shoulder, because he knew he must have either died or gone completely insane. He had looked up at her face less than an hour ago, reflected perfectly in cold marble. It was Elemmire Cousland, in all of her fiery strength and beauty; it had to be. Then warm hazel clashed with cool sea-colored sapphire and she melted.

"O-oh, sweet Andraste!" She cried, her 'borrowed' daggers clattering to the ground, "I k-killed him! I _killed_ him! He's dead because of me!" She dug her fingers into the flesh of her cheeks, smearing the dead man's blood across them as she sunk to her knees beside him. Her eyes landed on the blood seeping through Alistair's shirt, "Dear Maker, you're wounded!" She wailed, tears welling in her eyes, "Is it bad? What can I do? What _should_ I do? Who-" He pressed his fingers to her lips to silence her.

Her eyes narrowed in irritation, but she bit back a rather rude comment about invading her personal space when she saw his expression. He looked so vulnerable, like a little boy who had never gotten so much as a sugar cake for Feastday suddenly being told he was about to go live in a castle, shock and disbelief etched into the lines of his rugged face. And there was something so much like tenderness and hope shining in his dark eyes that she couldn't help leaning into the warm calloused hand that had moved from her mouth to her cheek, stroking it gently.

Alistair was a man haunted, and he knew it. He was plagued nightly by visions of ghosts and angels, demons and darkspawn, and Maker knows what else, but this…this was too raw, too real… He could smell her, taste her in the air, hear her breathing out and in; she was invading every sense he possessed. He couldn't fathom what new devilry had conjured her, but he wasn't about to ruin it with something stupid like talking. He leaned forward to catch her lips with his when-

"Duncan?" She whispered.

"What?" He asked.

"Where is Duncan?" She said; the panic rising in her voice.

"Who is-" He began, but he was cut off by the reappearance of his young guide.

"Nan!" The boy cried, throwing himself into her waiting arms. "I'm so glad you're safe, Nan…" The child whimpered into her shoulder as she rocked him back and fort, shushing him quietly.

Silence hung between them for a time, all hunkered down in the dirt, all lost together. Alistair watched the other two cling to each other with a slight envy. He wondered why he hadn't recognized her voice the instant it had reached him when his ears had burned to hear it for so long. It was the fear, he realized; Ellie's voice was always brave, always strong. He had never once heard her beg for anything, her unrelenting Cousland pride would never have stood for it. Except once…

"_Don't Go." She had called after him in a voice so small and frightened he almost doubted it was her. He turned to look at her one last time, to memorize the tears that shown in her eyes like diamonds, the ones he knew she would never shed, not here, where others might see and peg them as a weakness. _

_Maybe if she had cried for him, had run to him and begged without thought or care of who might be watching he would have stayed, would have found a way to forgive her, but she didn't. He knew how important it was to appear strong right now; their sway with the nobles was new and tentative at best; she couldn't afford to been seen as some lovesick female. _

_He knew it, and yet…it still made it feel as if what they had built up together wasn't worth it to her. Their love wasn't enough…_he_ wasn't enough, and if it was true now, hadn't it always been true? He burned with the all too familiar sting of rejection as he forced his voice to sound as hateful as possible._

"_I don't have a place here any more, not in the Grey Wardens, not in Ferelden, and _definitely_ not beside you." He snapped, though the undercurrent of pain in his voice was obvious. He pushed past the guards and was gone, trying to erase the expression on her face at his words, the complete and utter devastation he saw there. Even through his anger, he knew that those two desperate words to him had been the sound of her pride cracking, just has his had been the sound of a breaking heart. He tried to convince himself that there was only one, but the memory of her face…of the lone tear that had broken past her defenses, told him otherwise. _

"Duncan," the sound of her voice pulled him from his memories and he returned his gaze to the pair huddled beside him in the alley. "Duncan, where is Alistair?"


	2. Out of the Shadows and into the Fade

AN: Here is chapter two! Many thanks to my lone reviewer and the rest of you willing to read through my randomness!

Still Rated M for some slight sauciness.

Disclaimer: If Alistair really belonged to me and not Bioware, I would not be half so eager to share him with any of you.

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><p>A few days out of Lothering, on their way to Redcliffe, Alistair woke with a start from another dream of the Arch-demon, drenched in sweat. He sat in his tent for a moment, breathing raggedly and trying to calm his frayed nerves. The dreams were becoming more vivid. He pulled on the cleaner of his two shirts and decided to go sit by the fire; he would find no more sleep this night.<p>

His fellow Grey Warden was already there, stroking the head of the sleeping dog beside her absentmindedly and tossing bits of grass at the fire, watching them sizzle and turn to ash. She made no indication that she heard his approach and simply continued staring blankly into the dancing flames.

She had been…not cold exactly, but _distant_ with him since even before Ostagar, her sentences short, her tone dismissive. And for the most part he had been letting her have her space, especially after the battle, when all he had really felt like doing was sitting on the ground and having a good long sulk about, well, _everything_. But tonight he needed distracting and she was the only available ear, so he plunked down beside her unceremoniously and tried to start up a conversation.

"I thought Sten was supposed to be on watch." He said. There, that could hardly be taken offensively right? It was proof that not everything that came out of his mouth was a disaster.

"I took over for him." The girl informed him; her voice was as blank as her face. "There's no sense in all of us going without sleep." There was silence for a moment, and Alistair fidgeted in discomfort, trying to think of how to fill it, when she unexpectedly did it for him.

"Bad dreams, huh?" She asked, echoing his own words back to him from a few nights ago when she had first dreamt of the great dragon.

"You could say that." He replied quietly, scrubbing at his mussed hair, "You?"

"You have to be able to sleep to have nightmares." She told him, glancing at him briefly and shooting him the beginnings of a mirthless grin. "Or so I've been led to believe… I'm starting to doubt that there is any place free of them anymore."

He wanted to ask, but knew he shouldn't. It was a Grey Warden policy not to pry into one another's former lives. Duncan had told him that she had just lost her whole family, with the exception of her brother, a fact she had verified when she hesitantly asked about searching for him in the wilds. Alistair had to fight a very strong urge to throttle their seemingly heartless apostate guide when she had shot the idea down in flames. The blond girl had been visibly crushed.

"I think it's time for a subject change." He said, trying to slip back into his usual cheerfulness and falling a bit flat. She gave him a quizzical look.

"Such as?" She asked, piercing him with those blue eyes.

"The weather? Cheese? Why I'm always missing one sock?" He tried hopefully. She snorted; it wasn't a real laugh, but he would take what he could get.

"What's his name?" He inquired, gesturing towards the beast at her side.

"Dagnir," She told him, smiling fondly at the great hound. "For he is the 'bane' of all who oppose me …and even some who don't. Right, Boy?" The dog woofed sleepily and thumped his tail. She gave a short burst of true laughter and Alistair found himself joining in, unable to resist her sudden good humor.

"Well, what about yours? I don't think I've ever met anyone called 'Elemmire' before. It sounds…_fancy_." He asked playfully.

"And by 'fancy', you mean 'prissy'." She snipped at him, though there were still remnants of amusement in her eyes. "You hardly have room to talk, A-li-stair. Your name seems awfully _lordly_ for a stable boy." He blushed at her insinuation, but decided that silence was a better defense than denial. The quiet seemed to sober her because that soft empty sadness had returned to her voice when she spoke next.

"If you must know," She began, "There was a shower of stars the night of my birth. My father gazed at them from a window, cradling me in his arms, and likened me to them. I was his treasure, his 'star-jewel', his precious Elemmire."

"You know, that's not exactly helping the whole 'not prissy' argument." He pointed out.

"Don't I know it?" She replied, smiling faintly. "Mother used to say I became a tomboy purely out of spite, because my father chose such a delicate-sounding name. Like a dog named 'Darling' who bites everyone's ankles." He chuckled at the thought of her biting the ankles of visiting lords, and she gave him a wry smile.

"How about you?" she inquired. "I know you said your mother died when you were very young… Did she name you? Was it passed down from your father? Or perhaps it was the Arl? Do you know?"

"I'm not sure." Alistair mumbled, squirming uncomfortably at the topic of discussion.

"I bet it was your father. He was another lord right? That would make sense." She said, talking more to herself than him at this point.

"_What_ would make sense?" The second Warden asked; _none_ of this was making much sense to him.

"Your_ name_, of course." She replied exasperatedly. Elemmire heaved a sigh at his blank look. "One of the more charming parts of my upbringing was having to sit down and memorize a bunch of the genealogies of Ferelden: a long boring list of dead people's names and what they mean and who they killed and all sorts of useless trivia." She explained, scrunching her nose in distaste. "Alistair was in there somewhere…a relation of King Maric's I think; a great uncle maybe, or perhaps a distant cousin..." She shrugged indifferently and seemed unaware that her companion's face had just turned the color of sour milk.

"Y-yes, well, haughty sounding names aside, there is hardly anything about me to consider _noble_. You know, what with the whole 'raised in a barn thing' and all." Alistair tried to return to joking, but it wound up sounding more…strangled.

"Oh, I wouldn't say that." Elemmire told him, giving him a kind smile. "Alistair means 'defender of men', and here you are: a Grey Warden. I think you are stepping up to your destiny quite admirably."

"My destiny?" He asked, flushing slightly at the compliment and feeling a rush of pride as well as something strange and fluttery in his chest.

"My mother used to tell me that our surnames hold our duty, while our first names tell our fates." She said wistfully.

"And what is the fate of a 'star-jewel'?" He teased, deciding to sided-step the subject of surnames entirely. Elemmire returned his mischievous grin; it _almost_ reached her eyes this time.

"Why, the same as any star!" She claimed with false bravado, "To shine brightly amidst the darkness of this world, and only fade away at the coming of a radiant dawn." Alistair couldn't help his slightly derisive snort.

"What?" she asked with mock hurt.

"Your talents are wasted here, surely." He grinned broadly, "My lady has a tongue far more suited to that of a minstrel."

"Spoken like someone who has never heard me sing." She laughed. "And if I am your 'lady' now, does that make you my brave Ser Knight? I thought you were a defender of _men_." Despite her upturned lips, there was something of a wince in her eyes. She had said too much, opened her self too far, allowing this kind of closeness was an invitation for more heartache.

"I'll tell you what," He said softly, somehow picking up on her return to melancholy, "If you light my way in the dark, I promise to make an exception in your case." He felt his cheeks blush darkly at the boldness of his words.

"Is this before or after you put on that dress and dance the Remigold for me?" She said seriously, face completely deadpanned. Alistair laughed so hard that he forgot to be embarrassed, so hard in fact, that he almost didn't notice the slight squeeze at his fingers.

He glanced down at their joined hands in wonder, then back up to her face, questions swirling in his dark eyes. He kept them to himself however, fearing that anything else that came out of his mouth might scare away this new expression on her face. It reminded him of open windows and clear skies, the warmth in her smile visible despite the lateness of the hour and the dark shadows cast by firelight. She _did_ shine.

"It's a deal." She whispered to him. He gave her smaller hand a gentle returning squeeze, noting that it was just as calloused as his own, and nodded in silent agreement.

* * *

><p>For a moment Alistair basked in the simple pleasure of hearing his name roll off her tongue in that familiar way. But a myriad of questions rose in the back of his mind as her words sank in. Who was this Alistair, if not he? Was he her friend, her lover, perhaps? Or, Maker forbid, her husband? He opened his mouth to give his fears voice, but before he had managed to utter a single word, they were interrupted by a joyously booming bark.<p>

"_There_ you are, Alistair." She crooned at the large golden-brown mabari as he loped towards his companions. "I told you to stay with Duncan." She scolded the hound, who whined piteously in reply.

The man Alistair, who suddenly felt all but forgotten, widened his eyes in disbelief; staring at the new addition to their party. _'The DOG?' _He thought incredulously_, 'She named the DOG after me? Talk about a killing blow to my pride…'_

The new Alistair noticed his possible namesake and let out a low growl. His black muzzle had gone slightly gray, and his honey-colored body seemed…beefier than the one time Warden remembered, but otherwise, this dog was a spot on match for Dagnir. The man's face creased in a puzzled frown. _'Why would she rename her dog?'_

"Now, now, Al." The woman admonished, tapping the dog lightly on his head, "He's a friend. Be nice." The mabari sniffed him twice, deemed him unimportant and went back to the task of trying to completely cover the child's face in slobber.

"He was with me until we got near the square," Duncan informed her, whilst attempting to keep his face dry, "Then he suddenly sped up and ran towards the docks. I couldn't keep up."

"So help me Alistair, if I find you abandoned the Teyrn's son to try and mooch free food from the fish vendors; there'll be nothing but bread crusts for you for a_ year_." She threatened darkly. The dog whimpered, his ears drooped and his stubby tail tucked between his legs.

The 'real' Alistair was feeling light headed. Between the blood still seeping from his partially crushed shoulder, and the veritable menagerie of strange revelations this day was bringing, he was on the verge of either passing out or throwing up. Even so, the words 'Teyrn's son' could not escape his notice, cutting through the haze of blood loss to stab painfully at his heart. She had a son, a husband… She had rebuilt her family, she was happy and well all this time, while he had been drowning in the ache of a life without her. Had she merely shrugged her shoulders, named a dog after him, and moved on with her life?

A rapid wave of old fears rolled over him, that she had never really wanted him in the first place, that she was just using him as a distraction from the swirling tides of death that always seemed to surround them, or even worse, that she was merely placating his desires in order to use him as a political pawn, and once she had found a stronger grip on the throne, he was no longer necessary. He struggled to rise, everything in him crying out for him to run, to escape this madness, this sudden blind hurt, but there was a thin cold pressure at his jugular and a lithe hand wrenching his injured arm behind his back.

"I believe I can explain our four-legged friend's insubordination, Querida." A smooth voice purred from the shadows behind Alistair's uninjured left shoulder. The almost-Templar groaned inwardly in recognition; this day just _couldn't_ get any more impossible. Relief flooded the features of the other occupants of the dingy alley however, and their furry friend gave a satisfied woof in justification of his earlier transgression.

"Zev!" The boy chirped.

"Ser Arainai" The woman sighed gratefully, some of the fear from the earlier assault dissipating with the sudden arrival of the flaxen-haired Antivan. "There is no need to intimidate our new friend." She informed the elf in a way that sounded more like a request than a statement.

Alistair's brow furrowed at the way she addressed the elf. _'Well, _that's_ new.'_ Ellie had never been one to stand on formalities, if she could get away with it, and Zevran had never been one to insist upon them. He couldn't fathom as to why she suddenly felt the need to address the Elvin man, not only with respect, but with a certain air of _deference_; as if he outranked her on the social scale.

"Ah, but my sweet, you have always been far too trusting, no?" Zevran grinned at her, sounding not unlike an older brother. "Tell me, my rather smelly friend, why should I not simply slit your throat?" The elf hissed darkly in his ear, "Though, from your rather shabby appearance, I think I would probably be doing you a favor, no?"

"Well, not all of us feel the need to spend three hours every morning braiding our hair, _Crow_." Alistair snapped in reply, knowing the last bit would throw is captor off-balance. He could have just announced who he was, but he held back. Even with his hair unkempt and two weeks worth of stubble darkening his face, he couldn't look _that_ different.

Yet, the woman who had fought and ate and slept beside him for more than a year had failed to recognize him. He knew she had been shaken before from her run in with those thugs, but even now, those same ocean eyes he had fallen in love with gazed at him curiously, as a stranger who had come to her aid and nothing more. Something was seriously off here.

"I would not be quite so mouthy, if I had a blade against my throat." Zevran warned him evenly, increasing the pressure of the dagger against his prisoner's flesh to prove his point.

"Please!" The woman who spoke with Ellie's voice, yet somehow sounded so very different, begged anxiously. "Ser Arainai, this man came to my rescue! Surely, there is no cause for more threats and violence?"

"As you wish, Querida." Zevran replied, though he still seemed to disapprove. He released the haggard strawberry-blond and went to the boy, who gave him a firm hug about his knees, and the woman, who lowered her head to him in admiration and thanks. When the Elvin man's tawny gaze finally returned to his recent captive, scrutinizing him carefully, Alistair felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. _There_ was recognition, as well as a deep seething fury.

"_You._" The Antivan bit out angrily. The dark skinned man was a full head shorter than Alistair and a third of his bulk, but in a matter of seconds the brawnier blond found himself pinned against the alley wall with that same familiar dagger pressed into his jugular.

"What's going on?" The woman gasped in shock, "Do you know this man, Ser Arainai?" Duncan gave a frightened whimper from somewhere in the folds of her skirt and their four-legged counterpart cocked his head to one side and gave a nervous whine.

"What did you tell her?" Zevran whispered harshly in the ex-Warden's ear. "Tell me, you incompetent **ass**, _what did you say?_"

"N-nothing" Alistair stammered quietly, shocked into submission. The elf regarded him with narrowed eyes, full of distrust.

"Not even your name?" He pressed, his voice still low and threatening, but calmer at the taller man's first admission.

"Not even my name." Alistair confirmed softly, looking over the assassin's shoulder to where the woman in question stood, his hazel eyes growing sad and dark with longing.

"Good."

There was a sharp pain at his temple, the sound of a woman's startled scream, and Alistair's world was plunged into darkness.

* * *

><p><em>He was watching her as she slept; something he never seemed to get enough of, as they shared the luxury of a real bed in his room at Arl Eamon's estate in Denerim. He was lying on his back so that her head could rest on his shoulder and she had one palm pressed flat against his chest, laying claim to the organ beating beneath it. Their skin stuck together slightly as the night air cooled the sweat from their earlier exertions and their legs snaked together beneath the almost discarded blankets. Her short hair was a gleaming tangle of pale gold in the moonlight streaming in through the window and he could faintly taste the acrid musk left over from their lovemaking. He grinned broadly; these were the moments he treasured. <em>

_Tomorrow was the end of the world. A hall full of nobles were going to grouse and bicker until they decided whether or not they wanted to listen to reason and common sense. They might be one step closer to saving Ferelden tomorrow. They could be thrown back into their recently vacated cell in Fort Drakon. They might have revenge for Duncan and King Cailan, as well as the other soldiers left to die at Ostagar. They might be put to death. She might regain her family's teyrnir. He might be made king._

_So many things could happen with the next rising of the sun that would shatter the perfect haven that was now resting within his arms, and he could do nothing to stop it. It was like being sent to the chantry all over again. He could scream and rail against his fate, but in the end, the choice would be left to others._

_Alistair unconsciously tightened his grip on her waist and her pale eyelashes fluttered against her cheeks. He was so consumed by his dark musings that he didn't notice when her eyelids rose slowly, revealing those twin searching sapphires. _

"_Can't sleep?" She asked him, her voice soft and her eyes worried as her slim fingers traced delicate patterns on his warm flesh. His brow furrowed and he frowned slightly, uncertain how to explain his fears._

"_It's just that-" He began, but then thought better of it. There was no way to make it sound like he wasn't whining. _

"_Yes?" She coaxed. He sighed; there was no getting out of it now._

"_I just don't know what I'd do with myself… if I ever lost you." He fumbled gracelessly, hating how everything he wanted to sound meaningful and romantic always wound up a pathetic garbled mess. _

"_And you think you might lose me tomorrow?" She concluded._

"_Won't I?" The innocent hurt of an unwanted child welling in his voice, so scared to be left again. She gave him a long steady look, as if debating on whether or not to tell him something._

_She shifted suddenly from his grasp and moved so that she was sitting atop his stomach, bracketing his waist with her muscular thighs. All his thoughts and blood seemed to instantly move southward. She took his face in her hands and Alistair bravely tried to keep his gaze trained on her face, despite the pearly temptation of her naked breasts. _

"_What do _you_ want, Alistair?" She asked seriously, stroking the sides of his face with her thumbs. _

"_You." He managed to croak, in spite of the fact that his mouth had gone completely dry. His hazel eyes clouded with lust as they trailed down the lean plains of her abdomen to the junction of her legs. She saw where he was looking and laughed. _

"_I meant tomorrow." She smirked, pinching his cheeks in a teasing reprimand. "Do you want to be King? Or maybe Commander of the Grey?" She flashed a cat-like grin, "Or perhaps you were revisiting that plan to elope to Orlais and live in sin?" The mirth seemed to seep from her, and she leaned forward to press her forehead to his. "What I ever fate you would choose, I will see it done." She whispered fervently._

_He ran his hands along her sides, noting how she shivered at his touch, before curling his fingers into the slightly damp hair at the base of her neck. _

"_The answer is the same." He assured her, "I don't care if they decide to name me Court Jester tomorrow, so long as you stay by my side." Elemmire's mouth was open in a wide smile when he crushed his lips hungrily against hers._

_When they broke for air, she lowered her mouth to his ear, "Your desire is my command." She murmured hotly, nibbling softly at his earlobe. He growled playfully as he rolled them over._

_Earlier, they had been all feral heat and frightened passion, but now he took her slowly, tenderly, trying to stretch this moment into eternity with long leisurely thrusts. She responded in kind, her hips rolling to meet his in a patient kind of reverence, basking in the warmth of everything she had come to consider safe. _

"_Alistair?" His name rose from her lips like a prayer amidst her breathy cries of pleasure. _

"_Yes, my love?" He panted heavily, his own arousal making conversation next to impossible. _

"_Do you trust me?" She asked tremulously. _

"_With my life." He answered easily, bending down to kiss her deeply. She stared up at him accusingly, drowning him in those bottomless blue-green eyes._

"_Then why did you leave?"_

* * *

><p>Alistair jolted awake to find he was lying on a bed in what he would guess was a modest-sized room in the servant's quarters of a castle. His body was trembling slightly from half arousal and the ache of old wounds, and there was a part of him that desperately wanted a stiff drink, but he merely heaved a sigh and squinted painfully at the warm sunlight pouring in through the window before attempting to shift into a sitting position. A warm weight against his thigh halted all thoughts of trying to move, or blink, or even breathe too loudly.<p>

Slumped over in a chair beside the bed was the object of all his hopes and torments, her now shoulder length hair fanned about her like sunbeams as she slept beside him, claiming his leg as her pillow. He noticed the slackened fingers that had been holding his hand, and he gently ran his thumb over the back of her knuckles, reveling in the heartbreaking familiarity of it all. It wasn't fair that after all this time, waking up beside her and watching her face as she slumbered could still fill him with this sense of rightness, of completion, of _home_.

Studying what he could see of her face beneath the disarray of straw-colored locks, he noticed that she was not as unchanged as he had originally thought. The determined set of her somewhat sharp squarish jaw seemed to have lessened, her cheeks were fuller and glowed a healthy pink from a steady supply of good food, and there was a certain softness to her now that had never been there before. Perhaps it was a life free from treachery and death that had transformed her, perhaps it was regaining the family she had lost, or maybe it was simply the lack of _him_ that had lifted all those heavy burdens from her and allowed her to bloom into this delicate vulnerable version of herself.

He winced inwardly at the thought. But then he remembered how her eyes had not known him, how his voice had gone unrecognized, how his heart had reached out for hers and had seemingly gone unanswered. A new thought struck him; that perhaps this was not his Ellie Cousland after all.

He closed his eyes, letting the hum of his tainted blood raise to the surface of his mind. It had quieted significantly since the Blight, and he supposed he should be grateful for that, but there was something lonely about it too. There had been something comforting about the way he could sense his fellow Wardens. The rippling rage of the Arch-demon, the sinister buzz of the swarming darkspawn, the steady pulsing heat of Duncan; they had giving him focus and purpose, convincing him that he was more than just another useless bastard son to be swept under the carpet like a dirty secret. When he had first sensed Ellie's presence … she had felt like a pinprick of candlelight lost within an endless night, bolstering his courage and giving him hope. He reached out with his 'Warden sense', the curse that rushed through his veins calling out for one of its own kind. He nearly wept when he felt the flickering warmth of her reply. It _was_ her.

But something was wrong. A great surge of cold rose up from her, dousing the familiar fluttering sensation of her tainted blood. The icy force lashed out at him, reminding him of a war hound with its teeth bared, and Alistair recoiled instinctively, wrenching his hand from her gently curled fingers. He was wild-eyed with astonishment and breathing heavily as he scrutinized her sleeping form once more. But no, she was just as serene as before, without so much as a single lock of hair out of place. '_What in the Maker's name was _that?'


	3. Forgotten Hearts

AN: Sorry this took so long! I was out of the country and away from my computer. To make up for it, this chapter is my longest yet! Yay! I had a really hard time with it too, which added to its lateness. Once again, thank you to all those who took the time to comment, or add my story to their favorites/alerts. You guys keep me smiling! :D

Disclaimer: I have not found a way of using biogenics to create a real-life Alistair, so for right now, he and all the other fun characters of DAO belong solely to BioWare.

* * *

><p>Elemmire felt slightly disoriented as she looked up at the seething green sky and took a shaky step away from the fade portal. She wondered if every part of the dream-realm looked as barren and desolate as this prison the Sloth Demon had created for them.<p>

Waking up in Wiesshaupt Fortress, or what she assumed it must look like, had been unsettling enough, but to find the dead Grey Warden Commander there, smiling at her, had immediately set of alarms somewhere in the back of her mind. She had fought him, had struck down the man who had saved her life, and the look of pure venom in his eyes as he died haunted her. But she moved on, as it seemed she always had to, and now, five lesser demons and countless nightmares later, and she had yet to find one of her companions. Her brow creased in worry.

Then she heard the children laughing, their sounds strange and echoing in this barren island of the raw fade. She followed the noise with careful steps, having learned early on that not everything in this place was as friendly as it appeared. She froze when the source of the merriment came into view.

Her fellow warden was there, and that fact alone made her heart swell with…with what? She shrugged the question away, deciding that 'relief' was the only safe answer. She couldn't help smiling as she watched the tall man interact with the children, laughing good naturedly as they pawed at him, his own grin bright and boyish.

There was a sharp searing pain as she thought of her nephew, Oren, who had her brother's dark unruly hair and those sparkling Cousland-blue eyes. She missed the way his insatiable curiosity had driven both his mother and herself to aggravation, the way he always seemed to be tugging at some part of her, and how he was constantly trying to get her to teach him swordplay. Her face clouded over with sorrow as she realized she would have to steal that same kind of joy from Alistair. Never the less, she squared her shoulders and called out to him, raising an arm in greeting. It was then that she noticed the woman standing beside him, looking doe-eyed and complacent. Elemmire's expression soured, as a quiet flare of something that she would later thoroughly convince herself was _not_ jealously shot through her.

He seemed confused for a moment when he saw her approaching, but then his face broke into a wide grin that, if possible, glowed with even more contentment than before. There was also something that looked a whole lot like smug masculine pride in his eyes as his gazed at her unwaveringly. She was about to ask him if there was something on her face, when she suddenly realized that it had become very difficult to walk.

Elemmire had swollen to a rather impressive girth, her swords and armor had vanished and she found herself standing in simple cotton dress, completely bewildered and very _very _pregnant. It was immensely uncomfortable, her back ached and her bladder felt like someone was sitting on it…which, she supposed, someone _was_. She glared accusingly at the dark blond man, assuming that her sudden shift into maternity was his fault because, Maker knows, it certainly hadn't been _her_ idea. She was about to waddle down the remainder of the slope that separated them in the angriest manner she could manage, when she felt something tugging at her right hand.

She looked down at her side and gasped audibly. He was the most beautiful little boy Elemmire have ever seen, with his sandy hair that stuck up stubbornly and honey-brown eyes that blinked up at her full of mischief. He gave Elemmire an all too familiar crooked grin as he devoured the remains of the sweet he had been eating and swung their joined hands playfully, his fingers felt small and warm in hers, and they were still somewhat sticky from the treat he had just finished.

"Momma, can I go play with Papa and my cousins?" He implored sweetly, his voice was just as distant and echoing as the others, but still she felt it pull at her heart. She could not find her voice, so she merely nodded and watched him scamper off, only to be scooped up by the almost-Templar and given a tremendous bear hug.

She watched the two of them silently, raising her left hand to stroke absentmindedly at the swell of her abdomen. She gazed down wonderingly at the hand in question when she felt the babe stir, and noticed that she was wearing a simple golden band on her ring finger. She felt like crying as she gingerly made her way to companion's side.

"There you are!" He called jovially, "I was just thinking about you, isn't that a marvelous coincidence?" He set their 'son' down carefully and reached out to take her hand. Elemmire glanced at the red haired woman behind him, eying her warily, if there was a leading demon here, it had to be her. Alistair saw where her eyes lingered as hastened to make introductions.

"This is my sister, Goldanna." He explained, "These are her children, and there's more about, somewhere." Now that she was closer, Ellie could see a vague resemblance, though there was something sinister in the depths of the woman's cold eyes that Alistair either couldn't see, or was choosing to ignore. Goldanna smiled at her.

"I'm sorry I couldn't be at the wedding." Goldanna apologized in an overly-sweet voice.

"We understand," Alistair assured the demon, "you have a lot to contend with here, all on your own. But don't worry; we're going to make sure to help you out more often. Besides, I think Duncan should get to know his cousins."

"Duncan" Ellie echoed in a choked whisper.

"Would you excuse us for a moment, Sister?" Alistair asked, noticing the anguish on the pregnant woman's face. The shorter woman nodded pleasantly, but Elemmire swore she sent her a warning glare before moving off a few feet to tend to a cheerful looking hearth that the blond girl was sure hadn't been there a moment ago. The female warden returned her gaze to her friend when she felt him release her hand and place a large warm palm against her rounded belly.

"Are you alright?" He asked, worry creasing his brow, "Is the baby giving you trouble?"

"It isn't that…" She told him; the guilt for what had to be said clogging her throat. He waited patiently for her to find her voice, stroking her stomach with gentle reverence and a hint of awe as his hazel eyes gazed at her with unmasked adoration. "Alistair, none of this is real," she half-sobbed, "This is the Fade, a dream…We have to leave…you have to come with me." He merely cocked an eyebrow and gave her a disbelieving smirk.

"Now, I know no one wants to meet the in-laws, but _really_-" He began.

"You don't even _want_ this!" She exclaimed. "Not from me at least... Please, think about it! The only reason you think you're married to me is because the demon-"

"Of _course_ I want this!" He interjected; a wounded look on his face that momentarily stole her breath. "You're my wife; I wouldn't give up you and the children for anything! … I've never really had a family before, or anyone to really… _belong_ to. I thought we were happy…Why would you suddenly want to leave everything we have? Did I do something wrong?" He sounded as though he was about to cry, and Maker's mercy, it took everything she had not to succumb to the urge to wrap her arms around him and soothe his hurts. Elemmire swallowed thickly.

"Alright then," she said hoarsely, "If we are married, when was the first time you kissed me?" His smile returned for an instant, before it was consumed by a look of befuddlement.

"I-I'm… not sure." He said, "It was so long ago..."

"Where did we first lay together?" She prompted, causing him to blush furiously. "Surely this," she gestured to the bulge of her belly, "Can't have happened without some level of intimacy?"

"O-of course not," He stammered helplessly, "I-it was-That is to say- We were…"

"What day was our wedding?" She continued, "Who gave me away? What kind of flowers were in my bouquet?" He looked at her like a kicked puppy, and she knew the logic of this world was starting to crumble around them. In desperation he kneeled before her, placing a cheek and both large hands against her stomach, as he squeezed his eyes shut tightly against the truth.

"It _has_ to be real," He pleaded. "I can feel her moving."

"Her?" Ellie asked softly, stroking his hair much in the same way she had once comforted her young nephew.

"A clever little girl," He murmured sadly, "With the biggest bluest eyes you've ever seen."

"I'm so sorry, Alistair." She croaked out, the fingers in his hair trembling with overwhelming empathy. "I wish I didn't have to steal this from you…" He gave her a long searching look over the hill of her stomach.

"I remember a tower…" He started, "The Circle… It was under attack." She nodded encouragingly, and was about to affirm his beliefs when they were interrupted by a furious screech.

"You cannot take him, he is _ours_!" Goldanna roared, her sickeningly sweet voice having transformed into something deep and guttural.

Elemmire instinctively reached for her weapons as the small herd of demons charged them down, and found that they had rematerialized, as well as her armor. Even though it was easily eight against two, Alistair's captors were quickly dispatched. Ellie sent a quick prayer of thanks to Maker that the demons had found it unnecessary to continue their ruse as they fought, because even she didn't think she could have cut down that straw-haired boy with the messy fingers and the dimpled smile; demon or no.

"G-goldanna?" The man at her side called plaintively. His shoulders slumped in defeat, "I can't believe it. How did I not see this earlier?"

"I told you, this is the Fade. It isn't like the real world." Elemmire reminded him gently, "And this was a prison designed just for you, to hold you here in eternal complacency as the demons fed off of you're life force." He shuddered.

"Were you trapped in a place like this too?" He asked, the miserable fleeting glance at her now flat and armored abdomen not going unnoticed. She nodded silently.

"What did they show you? …I-if you don't mind me asking." She winced at the memory of the Warden Commander's dark hate-filled eyes as his life blood pooled at her feet.

"A world completely at peace." She answered quietly, "A time when the darkspawn are no longer a threat and there is no more need for sacrifice and death."

"That sounds wonderful." Alistair said; a mix of sorrow and understanding in his eyes. "How did you know it wasn't real?"

"Because you weren't there." Elemmire replied automatically, startling herself, yet even as she spoke the words, she knew them to be true.

She flushed slightly at the stunned look on his face, but as he opened his mouth to ask what was most likely going to be a very awkward set of questions, his form became misty and transparent. He called out to her frantically, and she reached for his hand, but it was too late; he was gone.

* * *

><p>She held her eyes closed for a moment after waking, trying to hold on to the remnants of her dream. But they were elusive as always, the sounds and images of things that had once been familiar slipping from her as water through a sieve. Every slumber, she cupped hazy memories of a past life in her palms, only to have them seep through her fingers with each waking. It was enough to drive one mad.<p>

She nuzzled her face into her pillow and grumbled at the intruding sunlight. It had been ages since she had slept so well. She paused briefly, wondering at the firmness of her pillow. It also seemed strangely warm, and…was it _flexing_? Memories of where she must have fallen asleep rose in her mind and she gulped harshly, heat flooding her cheeks as she hesitantly peeked up at the stranger whose leg she had commandeered.

His expression was difficult to make out, caught somewhere between sorrow, apprehension, and looking at her as if she had grown an extra head. He had a certain rugged handsomeness, from what she could make out beneath his thick layer of red-blond scruff, and when he had been sleeping there had been something endearing and boyish about him, so young when all the worry had seeped from his face and those dark haunted eyes were closed. She had reached out to him unthinkingly, her fingers tracing soothing circles over his hand, much the same as she did when Duncan was ill or plagued with nightmares.

She sat up stiffly, unsure of where to settle her gaze; she did not have the strength to meet those unwavering amber irises. Instead, she found herself looking rather fixedly at his mouth and remembering how he had leaned so close to her back in the alleyway…She had been sure he was about to kiss her. She began wondering what it would have been like if she had let him. His lips would be surprisingly soft, if slightly chapped, and he would thread his fingers into the hair at the nape of her neck and the smell of him would wrap around her like a warm blanket. The scents of honest sweat, of leather and metal, and campfire smoke, all the things she considered familiar and safe emanating from this man as his surprisingly tender kiss swept through her. She could feel her heartbeat speed up, what had started as a simple flight of fancy had spun out of control into a sensation so vivid, she could _almost_ swear it was a memory. His voice jolted her from her revelry.

"Um, where am I?" He asked.

"Ah, sorry," she said quickly, trying to atone for her laps of attention. "You are in Castle Cousland, the ancestral home of the Teyrn of Highever. He bids you welcome, by the way, and apologizes for Ser Arainai's behavior."

"Uh, yes, about that…" He began, prodding gingerly at his bruised temple, "Not that I was expecting a particularly warm greeting, but why did our pointy-eared friend decide I needed to be unconscious, exactly?" She looked embarrassed, and twiddled nervously with the ends of her hair.

"Ser Arainai is…something of a bodyguard to Duncan, and therefore he ends up looking after me due to sheer proximity. He can be a bit… over zealous and paranoid in his duties though. From what I understand of his background, he came from a world where everyone was out to get each other, so I suppose we must forgive him." She said, smiling at him gently.

"But why did the Teyrn let the two of you go into the village unarmed and unguarded?" He asked with a puzzled frown. She blushed again.

"Ser Arainai had been gone for months, on business of a personal nature, and I was going down to the docks to greet him, unbeknownst to me, Duncan and Alistair snuck out of the castle to follow me. Ser Araianai rather dotes on the lad, and I believe he was a bit over eager to see him again. I noticed someone following me, so I tried to lose them in the back streets… I assume you can guess at the rest." She concluded.

"That still doesn't explain what the Teyrna was doing wandering the streets without any kind of protection." The stranger pointed out. He seemed startled when she burst out laughing.

"Why on Thedas would you think _I_ was the Teyrna?" she asked, her mirth subsiding when she noticed his confusion.

"But you said the boy- …he is not your son?" The man fumbled.

"Duncan is Teyrn Cousland's son and heir. He and the Teyrna love the boy madly, but even now, the country is still recovering from the effects of the Blight and between that and trying to rebuild his own household after such a horrible tragedy… They have little time to spend watching the lad and keeping him out of trouble. I am his nursemaid and nothing more." She spoke humbly and with a hint of sadness, but then she smiled warmly and told him, "I love him as if he were mine, though. It is unlikely that I shall ever have my own child, so I guard him as fiercely as Ser Arainai, in my way."

"Why can't you have your own?" He asked unthinkingly.

"I-I can't…that is to say, I have a condition." She murmured tremulously, the tears welling in her blue eyes. "My memory… is bad." She tried, brokenly. "Names, faces, where I was born, the sound of my mother's voice…whether or not I even _had _a mother… Such things are lost to me. They say something terrible must have happened to me during the Blight to cause me to lose my memories, but even that I cannot remember. What man would want a woman so utterly damaged?"

She couldn't see due to the tears that clouded her vision, but she felt the large calloused thumbs that gently brushed the tears from her cheeks. She clung to one of his hands desperately and nuzzled into its rough warmth, uncertain as to why she had offered up the burdens of her heart so freely to this man she had known less than a day.

He gathered her in his arms like wildflowers, burying his nose in the heathery scent of her hair and humming broken lullabies as his hands smoothed out the heaving planes of her shoulders, and she let him, curling into his strong embrace like a snail in its shell; home at last. It felt more whole and perfect that either of them could ever remember being, though only one knew why.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry- I never should have asked." He whispered into her hair as he rocked her gently and her sobs lessened.

"Its alright." She sniffled, careful not to bump his bandaged shoulder. "How could you have known?" She craned her neck back to see the expression on his face; he looked as lost as she felt. She suddenly became very aware of their proximity, and self conscious of how blotchy her face must look. She never could have fathomed that the way her hair tangled carelessly around her face and the fact that her tears had clumped her eyelashes into soft star shapes around her eyes, had the man merely inches from her mouth aching to kiss her.

"It was a thoughtless question. There was no way the answer could be painless…Forgive me, I'm always saying something stupid." He said hoarsely, and she could feel his breath against her lips.

"Do you know what frightens me the most?" she asked softly. He shook his head mutely. "That I left someone behind. That there might be someone out there, waiting for my return, and I can't go back to them. Sometimes I feel like… they're so close, as if their name was on the tip of my tongue, like I could reach out," She placed a hand against his cheek, "And they would be there." His hazel eyes were boring into her soul. She dropped her hand.

"But then the feeling passes and I'm just as confused as ever." She murmured, not daring to meet his gaze.

"Someone told me once that we carry those we love with us in our hearts; that we do not need to spend every moment mourning them to have their memory guide us in our thoughts and actions." He sighed heavily. "And that thinking only of the past will do nothing, but blind you to the promise of the future."

"And has that advice served you well?" She queried, noting the shadows of ghosts that marred his face, making him seem so much older than he surely must be.

"It might, if I could bear to live by it," came his cheerless reply. "Maker knows I've tried… I want to do her proud, but-" His voice broke and his face twisted in pain. She took his head firmly in her hands and placed a chaste kiss against his temple.

"I know." She whispered, "Believe me, I do. The way little things torment you; the way a person walks, a certain phrase, a child laughing, the color of someone's eyes…" She trailed off as his stare hypnotized her. There was something lurking behind that dark gaze of his; something both old and new, hopeful and terrifying, an answer to all she sought and the doorway to oblivion. She wanted it more than anything.

Neither one could say later who moved first, but when their lips met, it was soft and tender and dazzling. There was something hesitant and bumbling about the way his mouth pressed against hers, but the sensation was so sweetly familiar that it made her heart race with the joy of an almost-memory. It was as chaste as a chantry boy and as a noble's daughter could have made it, but it seared through both of them, burning them with want and need, and the ache of loss.

"Elissa." The Antivan's voice called her from the doorway. The steel in his usually velvet tones broke the spell of the moment, and she reeled back to stare at the man who was once again a stranger with wide startled eyes.

"Why-" She managed to begin, before the elf cut her off.

"Duncan has been looking for you. As for our friend here…The Teyrn desires an audience." Zevran said flatly, his gaze as sharp as his poisonous daggers as he glared at the man in the bed.

"O-of course." Elissa mumbled, embarrassed. She scrambled gracelessly from the bed and headed out the door, but not without one final sweep of the room and its occupants. She held him captive with her sea storm eyes, and then, like a dream, she was gone.

"Get up." The elf commanded, any hint of civility gone from his manner. "You are lucky it was I who came for you. I doubt the Teyrn would have been nearly as calm about finding you molesting his sister."

"Sister?" Alistair gaped. "So, Fergus _was_ alive?"

"Yes, which is more than you can hope for after this meeting. He has a grudge against you for some strange reason… Shall we?" The former Crow smirked. The Ex-Templar gulped audibly before disengaging himself from the tangle of blankets and following his former comrade out into the hallways of Castle Cousland.

* * *

><p><em>She had stomped out into the woods alone, the perfect opportunity to make his move. He slipped between the shadows of the trees; silent has a wraith on this chilled midwinter night, watching her as her voice grew louder with the distance from the camp. <em>

_ "Stupid. Over-grown. Tactless. OAF!" She whirled around as she bellowed the last word back toward the camp and hurled a rock that came far too close to the assassin's face for his liking. He prowled around her silently, his feline-orange eyes studying her intently as she crouched in the darkness and wept hot messy tears. Where was the benevolent war goddess who had spared his life, mere months ago? Surely it was not this same woman who slunk of into the forest to wail like a petulant child over her brainless beefcake lover. _

_ Zevran tried to make himself sneer at her, to mock her obvious and foolish hurt, to draw his dagger and take her unworthy life and excuse his first failing as some kind of cosmic fluke. But her sobs were full of phantoms. In each whimper he could hear the distant echo of a pretty little Elvin maiden as she pleaded with him, kneeling in the filth of a dirty warehouse floor. _

"Please, Zev! You know I would never betray the Crows- Betray you! I wouldn't! I couldn't- Because I love you! I always have. Please…I love you. Please, don't let him do this." _Her words came back to him like daggers hidden in the cloak of a new heartache. He heard the twig snap. It took him a moment to realize that the sound had come from his own clumsy footfall as he unthinkingly drew near the figure huddled in the hoary frost on the forest floor. It took him another moment to realize that there was now a blade pressed to his throat. _

_ "Zev?" The Warden asked after a few seconds of tense silence. She lowered her blade as he raised his mask, veiling the empathy that had called him to her side with his usual glibness and charm. She stepped away and he saw, that for all the sniffling she was doing before, her eyes were seemingly dry and there was only a flicker of the torrent of frustrated sorrow left in her expression. He smiled slightly, noting how her upbringing had taught her to hide herself as much as his. Ah, the life of a noblewoman; where you are pampered and petted and sold as freely as a thoroughbred mare. Elemmire flinched under his scrutiny. _

_ "You didn't have to follow me out here, you know." She stated flatly. _

_ "Ah! True, but I have never been able to resist a damsel in distress." He said, flashing a careless grin. She briefly looked down at her body, clad in sturdy silverite scale armor, and sent him an incredulous glare. _

_ "I am hardly some flowery Orlesian damsel." Ellie said bluntly. "As for the distress…It is of my own making. I'll be fine." _

_ "Oh, I had no doubt of that, Querida. I was merely going to offer my services." He purred as he leaned against a nearby tree, all charm and easy grace; any other woman would have been half stripping him by now. _

_ "Alistair doesn't need assassinating…__**yet**__." She told him, sending a fierce glare in the direction of the campsite. _

_ "Then perhaps you are in need of my other talents? I am told my Antivan massages are a great reliever of stress, or __**distress**__, as the case may be." He couldn't help baiting her, despite her constant rejections; it was too entertaining. She would play along some days, often rolling her eyes and simply laughing at him, but sometimes she would flush as red as her innocent chantry boy, which was by far his favorite reaction. '_How will she decline today_?' he wondered._

_ "Now, _that's_ an idea!" She exclaimed, eyes brightening suddenly. _

_ "Ah! You wound me, dear lady. I- ...What did you say?" He balked, sure he had misheard her. _

_ "Spar with me." She commanded gaily, drawing her sword and dagger and grinning mischievously. _

_ "That is…a euphemism, yes?" Zevran asked hopefully as he drew his own weapons. The blond warden's laughter echoed through the cold of the forest as they made for a nearby clearing._

_ "If you truly believed that, would you have armed yourself?" She asked, shaking her head and chuckling at his unrelenting attempts to woo her. _

_ "I was hoping you simply wished to engage in some interesting foreplay. No?" He suggested innocently. The elf finally got the reaction he'd been hoping for, as she flushed a brilliant scarlet, and he laughed heartily._

_ "J-just take your stance already." She stammered._

_ "As the Lady commands. Come, let me show you how we dance in Antiva." He called to her playfully. _

_ They fell into their match with a seamless grace the rogue found quite surprising. The assassin had watched her several times as she sparred with her fellow Grey Warden, but he had never seen her like this. With the Ex-Templar, her moves were slower, stiffer, more calculated, as if she were playing at chess rather than practicing with her blades. Now, she was all joy and spontaneity, and liquid movement. Each dart of his dagger and thrust of his blade was met with easy parries and blocks that he assumed she would have missed due to the sheer weight of her armor alone. Zevran frowned; he had underestimated her once again._

_ He hadn't thought much of her when they had first met, with her boyish hair and her face splattered in mud. Not that those things had prevented him from trying to seduce her, on the contrary, he had hoped that her obvious virginity and lack of sex appeal would make it easier to bed her, kill her, and leave. But when she had cut his bonds and given him her hand to rise, there was something like fierce understanding in her eyes, and he knew she would not fall to him easily. He had misjudged her, obviously not for the last time. _

_ They had been fighting for some time now, and the weight of her armor was beginning to slow her movements. The elf noticed her fatigue and feigned right, and when she moved to block his blow, he caught his foot behind her right ankle, tripping her to backwards. He was on her in a flash, straddling her hips and crossing his blades at her throat. There was something like petulant anger in those blue irises, that wanted to whine of foul play, but she merely lay there gazing up at him, her labored breathing sending up puffs of steam that mingled with his own in the chill night air._

_A dark fury rose up in him, from somewhere deep in the bowels of his mind, the part of him called 'Crow'. He had come to this Maker- forsaken country in a vain attempt at freedom. The sweet release of death, the ever-lasting peace that all the priests told him could be found at the Maker's side. Anything was better than living every day haunted by the honesty in Rinna's eyes. _

_And then _she_ appeared. Her hair like wheat in the afternoon sun, her jaw set, and her stride determined, as she waltzed carelessly into his ill-planned ambush. She had spared his life, and trapped him in a cage of an entirely different kind. It was there in her eyes even now: trust. _

_The very same eyes that reminded him of a rare sapphire-colored bird he'd seen in the house of a wealthy target, singing mournfully in its gilded prison. He had opened the cage, when the job was complete, and watched it disappear against the blueness of the cloudless summer sky, filled with envy. But he had seen the way she lit up when the other Warden smiled at her, how she stared after the chantry fool's retreating form sometimes, with a sad and knowing ache. Zevran saw and he knew: there was no freedom in her eyes for him. _

"_Zev?" Elemmire whispered to him, a hint of worry in her voice. He pressed his blades against her throat. _

"_Why didn't you kill me?" He demanded with something close to anguish lacing through his words. He saw confusion in her face, but not fear. Despite the fact that all it would take was a flick of his wrists to take her life, her faith in him remained unshaken. It was maddening. _

"_If you recall, you did ask me to spare you." She told him calmly, as if speaking to a skittish animal. _

"_But I had just tried to _kill_ you! I was an elf, a stranger AND a Crow…Does the threat of death bother the Grey Wardens so little? Is your life so meaningless?" He raged at her. _

"_Is yours?" She shot back. He pulled away from her slightly, surprised, but he quickly regained his façade of control._

"_I am willing to bet your Templar would say so, as well as our lovely Morrigan." He sneered down at her._

"_I didn't ask what they thought. I asked if _you_ thought your life still has worth." She said. He glowered down at her, hating how she had somehow gotten the upper hand when he was the one in the position of power. Her dark blue eyes looked up at him filled with something soft and kind, and terrifying. The feelings she stirred up in him were powerful and dangerous, he should be rid of her now, slit her throat and disappear into the shadows of the skeletal trees. Back into the darkness, where he belonged._

"_Live." She commanded him gently, touching his cheek lightly with cold calloused fingertips. "The person you lost would wish the same. Do not give in to the sorrow of death." _

"_What makes you think I have lost someone?" He asked coolly. _

"_Because I have too." She smiled up at him sadly. "It marks you. Leaves traces in your every expression, just like these." She said, stroking the curving black lines at his temple._

"_And how does one treat such a wound?" He asked her quietly._

"_With love." She told him softly._

"_Then I beg you to end my suffering." He murmured, and leaned down to catch her lips with his own. It was forceful and rough, his rage and want pouring out through his mouth and into hers. She melted into him initially, but soon stiffened, and he knew his time was up. He pulled away. She stared up at him, bewildered and panting, and it took every ounce of his control not to simply ravage her until all thoughts of the naïve Templar had been banished from her mind._

"_Could I, Zevran?" She asked him in a hushed tone, he hated how there was pity in her voice. "I am a Grey Warden first and a Cousland second; my duty comes before all else. I cannot abandon it to please you. Would you give up everything you know, and follow me? Would you sacrifice your freedom, if it meant staying by my side? Would you forsake all other lovers, but me? Could I ever be enough for you?" _

_They stared at each other for a long moment. He knew she was trying to give him an easy out, and something about that was excruciatingly frustrating; he knew his own mind. But he also knew that the real reason he was being turned away was about six feet tall and probably pissing himself that she had disappeared for so long. Her sweet innocent fool. He sighed dejectedly. _

"_No." He lied, wincing inwardly as she smiled at him in thanks. Elemmire reached out to him again and affectionately brushed a blond tendril of hair from his eyes. _

"_Go." She told him. "Live and be free." The irony of her words was not lost on him. He rose to his feet in a single fluid motion and offered her his hand to help her rise._

"_Perhaps someday, my Warden, but for now, I am your man, without reservation."_

The rogue walked swiftly on silent feet down the corridors of the place he had strangely come to consider his home; in a country he had come to by chance, hoping to meet his death. But everything had gone awry.

Living in a world where emotions got you killed, Zevran had perfected his mask, charming and impenetrable; and yet somehow, a young, reckless, and somewhat naïve woman had slipped through his defenses and stripped him bare. If only she had stripped him in other, much more pleasing ways… Ah well.

But she was never his in the way that he was hers. It had been easier when they had all been traveling together, watching the male Warden fall all over himself, trying to please her, Zevran could at least tell himself that the chantry boy would rather lick Oghren's bare feet that hurt their fearless leader. The elf had conceded to the better man, or so he thought.

Alistair had betrayed her, betrayed them all, and left them to their fates. It had utterly destroyed her. The light was gone from her eyes, the warmth from her expression… she was like the waking dead. The presence of the surly Teyrn in their camp hadn't helped either. When the rogue had seen her return from the landsmeet, broken and alone, he had sworn to himself that he would never leave her. And when she lost herself, he was there, beside her always, looking after her in a way she had never thought him capable, he had never thought so himself. The way she looked at him now, so full of admiration and trust, he had hoped…

But then her Ex-Templar had dropped back into their lives like the pigeon crap Shale had always been complaining of, and within hours of their meeting it was back, that tender gleam in her eyes that he had missed over the years. It was as beautiful as star-shine, and never for him. Some things never changed.

Zevran glanced back at the slouched figure that tromped along behind him like a bronto through an abbey, the man looked apprehensive to the point of possibly becoming ill. Good. He deserved it for kissing her. For trying to take her back after casting her aside like garbage and leaving her to die. The scene in the bedroom had been enough to make the elf long to belt him across the face with the hilt of his blade a second time, but he knew Elissa would have scolded him and taken the blame for the deed on herself. Besides, he had no doubt about the kind of greeting Fergus had planned for his former traveling companion.

They reached the Teyrn's study and Zevran knocked politely on the door for entrance. Fergus' deep friendly voice beckoned them inside and the assassin opened the door to the spacious office. The walls were lined with dark colored bookshelves, and a portrait of the late Teyrn Cousland hung behind the desk, watching over his son with the same kind blue eyes he had passed on to his children.

Fergus was the night to his sister's day. His skin was tanner, if only marginally, his hair was a deep brown, and if her eyes were a raging sea, his were the color of a calm, cloudless night. He had the same square jaw, though the lines of his face were sharper, and when they entered the room his mouth quirked into a familiar half-grin that often spoke of mischief in his younger sibling.

"Ah! You must be this 'Alistair' I've heard so much about." The Teyrn boomed jovially, rising from his desk and coming to greet them.

"My Lord." The one time Warden greeted him nervously and bowed his head.

"I understand we are in your debt somewhat, for saving my little sister's life. Is this not true, Ser Arainai?" Fergus asked, turning to Zevran with a pleasant smile still playing across his face.

"It is, my Lord." The elf replied, smirking slightly.

"I could do no less, Ser." Alistair said shyly, his confidence slightly bolstered by Fergus' seemingly warm reception.

"I see." The teyrn said, the first hint of seriousness entering his voice. "Well, that does complicate things a bit. I might even have to apologize afterwards."

"After what?" Alistair asked, blinking in surprise.

"This." Fergus' fist slammed into his guest's face and sent him crashing to the floor with blood pouring out his nose. Zevran smiled.

* * *

><p>AN: me again. just wanted to throw out there that the ending might still be a little buggy, as my editor has not gotten to it yet, but I wanted to post it for you guys anyway! If there is any serious issues, I will have them worked out ASAP!<p>

P.S. I felt so bad for Zev...I had been looking through a lot of Zevran fandom during this chapter and decided he needed a little more attention... I would be in love with you, but every time I try Alistair gives me the sad panda face! I am helpless! D:


	4. Lost and Found

AN:Here we are at chapter4! yay!Wow I really hate writing long conversations, but I keep running into them... *sigh* Elemmire and Alistair bothered me my entire vacation and insisted that I come back home and write more. As always, thank you to all who review my story and take the time to even read it, you make me :)

P.S. there may or may not be a LOTR quote in here somewhere. +100 approval from the author if you can spot it.

P.P.S. Peter Jackson, please don't sue me for using it.

Disclaimer:BioWare is still not mine, and therefore neither is Dragon Age or any of their fun characters.

* * *

><p>Alistair's nerves where shot. The closer their band of misfits got to Redcliffe, the more fidgety he became. When the turrets of the castle finally appeared in the distant haze, Elemmire put a reassuring hand on his shoulder and it spooked him so badly that he jumped, tripped over his own feet, and landed heavily on the ground, much to the amusement of the swamp witch and the chantry sister and the concern of his fellow Warden. He couldn't tell what the Qunari felt on a good day; exasperation, no doubt.<p>

"Maybe we should take a break?" The blond girl suggested; which caused Morrigan to role her eyes in annoyance.

"If we stop every time Alistair acts like a fool, we shall be standing here until the darkspawn are upon us." She snipped.

"I'm feeling a little ragged actually, and it might be best to try and wash up a bit before we meet the Arl. We'll hardly seem like people worth backing if we look like vagrant peasants covered in mud." Elemmire replied, giving the apostate a wan smile. The woman merely gave her a brief suspicious glare with her golden eyes before shrugging and walking away.

Alistair looked up at his friend gratefully from where he had landed in a heap and mouthed the words '_thank you'._ She grinned at him and offered him a hand in rising, which he took silently. He knew he had to tell her.

When they had all spread out and taken a moment to scrub the dust and grime from their faces and hands in a nearby stream, Alistair decided his armor could probably do with a wash too, especially after his earlier fall in the mud. Gathering it up, he looked around and spotted the person he wanted to talk to sitting under a shady tree. She was thumbing her way through a thick book with one hand and using the other to hold an apple she was eating absentmindedly. Her huge war hound was stretched out beside her; the picture of contentment. She glanced up at his approach and smiled, gesturing for him to sit beside her in the space not occupied by dog.

They sat for a few minutes in companionable silence, enjoying the brief reprieve from constant walking. He scrubbed industriously at his armor, trying the work up the nerve to spill his biggest secret, because he knew it was inevitable that it would come up somewhere in their conversation with the Arl, and he would lose her trust, and possibly her friendship. He couldn't let that happen, not when the genuine camaraderie between them and their occasional playful banter was all that was keeping him from sinking down into the death and despair that was slowly eating its way through this country.

"Uh. L-look, can we talk for a moment?" He stammered, setting his armor aside. "I- um, need to tell you something I-uh, probably should have told you earlier…" He saw the concern in her face and grimaced. This was so unfair! They had just gotten to the point where they were talking easily to each other, it was the first time he knew what to say to a girl since he was eight, and she was the closest thing he had to a true friend since…well, _ever_. And now he had to ruin everything.

"What's on your mind?" She asked, closing her book and tossing the apple core to Dagnir, who crunched it noisily.

"I told you before how Arl Eamon raised me, right? That my mother was a serving girl at the castle and he took me in? The reason he did that was because…well, b-because King Maric was my father. Which made Cailan my… half-brother, I suppose." He braced himself for her impending wrath, but she merely sat there, face completely blank, and her wide eyes blinking not unlike a startled calf.

"You're having me on." She said finally, a smirk beginning in anticipation of the snarky retort she was sure he had at the ready. He didn't answer; his face a mask of guilt and shame, his dark eyes pleading for understanding. She gaped in horror.

"Dear sweet Maker…you're _not_ kidding are you?" She sounded almost breathless. He shook his head sullenly. "You're the- and you…and I-" Complete sentences seemed beyond her grasp for the moment.

"I would have told you, but…it never really meant anything to me. I was inconvenient, a possible threat to Cailan's rule, and so they kept me secret. I've never talked about it to anyone." He told her pleadingly, but she just continued staring at him in shock and disbelief.

"Didn't _mean_ anything?" She shrilled when she found her voice. "Sod it all, man! You are the last Theirin, the only heir to Calenhad's throne- and you don't think that _means_ anything?" Dagnir's ears perked up at the shouting and he gave them both a curious glance before deciding he wanted no part in their argument and trotted off to find the Qunari.

"Well, _sorry_!" He replied heatedly, his own ire rising at her indignation. "It's hard to remember the glory of your bloodline when you're sleeping in a hayloft!" Her eyes softened in sympathy, but she still shook her head at him.

"I can't believe this…" She groaned, "Not only are there only two of us, but you're the bloody _prince_! What were you thinking, putting me in charge and letting me put you out on the front lines?"

"I don't want some kind of special treatment for it!" He exclaimed frantically. "Everyone who knew either resented me for it or they coddled me…even Duncan kept me out of the fighting because of it. I didn't want you to know, as long as possible. I'm _sorry_." There was bitterness in his voice and he wouldn't meet her gaze.

"Ugh!" She practically roared in frustration, rising to her feet and pacing in front of him. "Of _course_ they would! Cailan and Anora had been married for five years, and never had an heir. You are all that is left of four hundred years of Ferelden royalty! You are _special_, you need to be kept safe- and I… Oh Maker's blood… I called you a moron yesterday, didn't I? Andraste's flaming pyre, I directly insulted the rightful King of Ferelden… somewhere in the Fade, my mother is having a heart attack."

"I am not the rightful King of anything!" Alistair declared petulantly, crossing his arms and huffing at her. "I am the son of a commoner, a Grey Warden on top of that, and nothing 'special' that needs constant babysitting." To his absolute horror, she knelt before him with her arms folded across her chest, and bowed her head in respect.

"Begging you pardon sire, but don't be a fool." She told him in a solemn voice. "A madman sits on Ferelden's throne, and you are the rightful heir. Your country needs you, Alistair." She gazed up at him through her pale blond bangs, freezing him in the deep blue depths of her eyes. "You are our king, our prince -_my_ prince- and if by my life or death I can protect you, I will."

"But I don't want to be king!" He practically whined. "I have _never_ wanted it!" She made no move to rise.

"It is your duty, Alistair." She told him evenly.

"Duty?" He scoffed, surging to his feet and looming over her kneeling form. "What about my duty as a Grey Warden? What about ending the Blight? Is that not enough duty for you? All my life, this one thing has cast a shadow over everything, _ruined _everything- an unfortunate accident of birth. Then I became Grey Warden and found honor and brotherhood and acceptance…And you're telling me to throw it away to become the King and live the rest of my short life being constantly reminded of how I'm not as good as King Maric, or Cailan?" Her silence only rankled his nerves further. "Forget it." He snapped as he stormed off, "What do you know about being told you have to do something, or be something, just because of who your father was?"

When they finally began their trek down the surrounding hills into Redcliffe Village, the group was consumed by a frosty silence. The rift between the two Wardens made the atmosphere thick with tension, and the rest of their party felt it heavily. Even Morrigan felt it was in her best interests not to barb the lone figure that was brooding at the back of their formation.

Alistair was hovering somewhere between resentful rage and severe depression as he tromped along at the back of the line, staring avidly at the tops of his boots. He had been so sure that she would understand…or at least hear him out. But no, she was just like everyone else, placing his blood in a position of more importance than who he actually was, or what he actually wanted to be. He was just… _Alistair_, and when that had been all she had known of him, every smile she sent his way had been a blessing, every laugh a piece of hard won joy; because it wasn't for the 'Bastard Prince' or the 'Rightful King', it was for him, exactly as he was.

He was so caught up in the downward spiral of his dark thoughts that he didn't notice the constant worried glances being sent his way by his fellow Warden from the head of their troop. After pausing a few times, unsure of how to breech this first argument between them, she seemed to find her resolve and stomped her way back to where their should –be sovereign was sulking, causing the rest of them to halt in their tracks.

"Cousland." She blurted at him suddenly.

"Sorry, what?" He asked, completely bewildered. She took a long shaky breath.

"My full name is Elemmire Lysithea Cousland." She told him as if it explained something, staring at him expectantly.

"Uh, nice to meet you?" Alistair replied uncertainly, but then the wheels in his brain started rotating. "Wait… that name sounds familiar… and you're from Highever… Maker's breath! You can't mean- Cousland as in _Teyrn_ Cousland?"

"I am his youngest child," her eyes grew sad, "Perhaps his only child, if Fergus is…"

"But that would make you a…a _Teyrna_? Maker's blood! And you were getting after _me_ for keeping secrets!" He exclaimed. His mind was in a whirl, it had been obvious that she was from some noble house, not only did her manners and general way of speaking give her away, but she owned a mabari, and they were not an inexpensive common kind of dog. Not only that, but Dagnir was extremely clever, even for his breed, and handsomely proportioned, it was plain to see that he was a thoroughbred. Yet, he had never imagined that she was a _Teyrn's _daughter! Perhaps the child of a minor Bann who lived near enough to Highever to consider it home who had gotten ambushed by highwaymen, or darkspawn, and thereby lost her family when Duncan had found her. Surely nothing so trivial could have taken out the powerful lord and his entire family with the number of soldiers that would have undoubtedly been accompanying them…

"But you said your family was…" The final word of his sentence caught in his throat at the pain in her eyes. "What happened?" He whispered.

"The Arl of Amaranthine, Rendon Howe," She spat the name like the vilest of expletives, "Told my father that his troops were delayed due to poor weather. My brother left with almost all of our men, and in the dark of night, when the Arl's men arrived, he sent them to slaughter us in our sleep." Her voice cracked in fury and sorrow; it was the first time Alistair saw tears in her eyes. "My nephew, Oren, was only six years old…they slit his throat like a butchered calf."

No words. Not a single one that he could think of could free her from the agony that twisted the features of her face. No sword or arrow or mage's spell had managed to wound her in the way that the memories of those screams in the night did now. He felt helpless in the wake of her roiling grief.

So he abandoned speech, it had never done him much good anyhow, and simply crushed her fiercely to his chest before she had a chance to protest and he had time to think about what he was doing. Their armor clanged against each other and bit awkwardly into their flesh, but there was something right about it; how this comfort could not be given without some pain as well. She trembled in his arms, he couldn't tell if it was from anger or anguish, and ever so slowly sagged into his embrace.

"I'm going to kill him." She swore into his collarbone, "I'm going to make him pay."

"_We're_ going to make him pay." Alistair corrected firmly, "You're not alone in this. We're both Grey Wardens, that makes you my-" She leaned back to look up at him and he suddenly realized how close they were standing; he gulped. "-sister." He finished hoarsely.

"I think I like the sound of that." She said with a shy smile. He stepped away from her quickly, blushing furiously and rubbing nervously at the back of his head. She shuffled her boots and suddenly seemed very interested in the clouds floating overhead.

"The p-point I was trying to make," Elemmire stuttered after a few moments of intense awkwardness, "is that I _do_ know what is like to live in the shadow of your parents." He gave her a doubtful look.

"I am by no means trying to belittle whatever suffering it might have caused you." She assured him. "But I know very well what it is to place family honor before personal comfort and duty before happiness."

"And it didn't make you miserable?" Alistair asked.

"Some days," she conceded. "Usually the ones that involved me putting on something frilly and spending the evening surrounded by potbellied older men with wandering eyes- and hands." She grimaced, "Or being fawned over by their drunken wives as they try to convince me to marry their dimwitted sons."

"And you would subject me to this?" Alistair baulked, looking horrified.

"Don't worry Alistair, they would never ask _you_ to marry their dimwitted sons…though they might try to put you in something frilly." She smirked.

"You know what I meant." He glowered, unimpressed with her attempt at humor.

"Yes, the whole dealing with deceitful conceited nobles part is awful and boring," She sighed wearily, "But it's not about them- not really. It's about those hopeless people in Lothering. You wanted to help them, didn't you? It's about the sick and hungry who line the streets of every village we've passed through; if we leave our land in the clutches of people like Loghain and Howe, who will be their champion? They need people like us- people like _you_- in positions of power. Being a Theirin, or being a Cousland for that matter, means being born to a certain amount of privilege, but being given that privilege means that we are slaves to those who were born with none. We belong to more than just ourselves, Alistair."

"It never seemed like much of a privilege to me, being a cast-off stable boy shoveling horse droppings, though I suppose it was better than starving to death in a gutter somewhere, and as far as belonging to more than myself… Well, I wouldn't really know, no one ever really seemed to…" He trailed off, uncomfortable at revealing his loneliness. She placed a comforting hand on his forearm.

"The way the Arl treated you was abhorrent, you should have been raised as his ward, not his stable hand. While I understand why he felt he should not raise you as his son, there was no reason to bring you up like some commoner's cur." She told him gently, "The Rebel Queen birthed your father in a barn, or so the stories say, and he barely saw the inside of a castle until his coronation, yet he is heralded as one of our greatest heroes, 'Maric the Savior.' Humble origins are nothing to be ashamed of."

"It wasn't _that_ bad…" He mumbled, kicking at nearby pebbles. "And I'm nothing like my father. A great leader of men? Someone soldiers and nobles alike look to on the battlefield for inspiration and strength? That's not me. I'm just…_Alistair_. Everyone else will tell you so, I'm just goofy awkward Alistair, who never does anything right… I couldn't save Duncan…or Cailan, and you want me to rescue an entire nation? You've got the wrong man."

"And I'm just Elemmire, the silly noble's daughter, whose head was always off in the clouds somewhere. The first time I was going to be in charge of troops would have been when my father left for Ostagar. I was clever and educated, but everything was a distant theory, no blood, no death. Until Howe's men stormed our keep I'd never killed a man, or even been in a real battle, but here I am, struggling to lead us, because you told me I could…because you told me I _should_."

She snarled at him fiercely, but then something in his expression seemed to make her crumble, and she sighed wearily, "I always thought being a Grey Warden would be some kind of wonderful adventure, swooping in on Griffons destroying evil easily…but its not. There is nothing grand or glorious here, this is dust and decay and misery. Elemmire the Grey Warden can't save her country any more than Lady Elemmire Lysithea Cousland of Highever could, but we have to _try_ Alistair. I have to believe we can save _someone._"

"And you think my being on the throne would help?" He asked, slightly dumbstruck.

"I know it would." She told him seriously, the intensity of her blue eyes daring him to doubt her. For a few moments all he could do was gape at her in awe, and then he burst out laughing.

"You would be an amazing queen." He grinned at her.

"Is that a proposal?" She laughed at him.

"N-no!" He stammered, flushing beet-red. "I meant you would make a far better queen than I would ever make a king, that's all. You are a better leader by far, you aren't afraid to make tough decisions, and you can talk people into to doing just about anything."

"Including talking you into claiming your birthright?" She asked in a slightly teasing tone.

"Talking me into at least _considering_ it." He sighed, "I still think putting me in charge of anything is a terrible idea, but…I do want to help people, if you think I could. Just promise me that this is a last resort, if there is no one better to place on the throne…I'll do it." He held out a hand to her and she shook it firmly.

"It's a deal…my prince." She smirked at him as she walked back towards the head of their party.

"Great," He groaned, "I'm going to regret this. Somehow I just know it."

* * *

><p>"Nope" Fergus sighed contentedly, "I still feel completely justified." He carelessly wiped what was most likely spittle and blood off the back of his hand and smiled smugly at the man kneeling on his carpet.<p>

"I'mb thooo glad," Alistair said thickly, dabbing the blood from his bruised nose. "I whood hate to think that thomthing tho trivial as bunching me in the face might ruin your day." Apparently, he had reached his limit of how many head injuries he could take before becoming mulish.

"Still, you cannot say you did not have it coming, my friend." The elf sneered down at him.

"Yeth, of courth!" The former Warden continued sarcastically, "Everyone dows that its only polite to bunch subone after they rescue your sibling- only natural! …and I'mb not your _friend._" He snapped.

"No you are _not_!" The Antivan snarled like a feral cat, "You are a pathetic, _worthless_, son of a-"

"Zevran! Fergus! What in the Maker's name is going on in here?" An angry voice with a pleasing Orelisan lilt cried from the doorway.

As she moved into his field of vision, Alistair's breath caught in his throat. In a sweeping gown of the deepest midnight colored velvet, with her hair curled and braided and spilling down her back like a waterfall of red-gold, she looked every bit the lady she had always claimed to miss being. Her limbs were still white and willowy; her movements still perfect in their quiet practiced grace, and her crystalline blue eyes gazed at him with a mix of sorrow and forgiveness.

"Leliana," He said her name like a prayer, soft, pleading, and disbelieving. "What are you doing here?"

Flowery, prone to random outburst of giggles, slightly ridiculous, and _so_ seemingly _meek_, she had stirred his macho man instinct to _defend _something- preferably whilst brandishing something pointy, so when Elemmire had tried to send her back to the chantry, he had stuck up for her, insisting that she was the _benign_ sort of crazy. With her full pouting lips and her bright flashing eyes, not to mention the way she swung her hips when she walked…she had just been so _pretty_, in every way that Alistair had assumed a woman should be; which caused him no small amount of embarrassment, as it often led to him making a complete _ass_ of himself when talking to her, or near her…or at all. But for all her soft curves and enticing smiles, Leliana had not been the one who had crept in like a thief in the night and stolen his heart. Instead, she had become something of an older sister to him, and seeing her now, he realized it wasn't just Ellie he had been missing. They had been something of a family once, a strange, loud, bickering family, but they had all looked out for each other, which was more than Alistair could say of the people he'd been around for the last five or six years.

"Alistair," She smiled as she knelt beside him, pulling out a handkerchief and a health poultice from some cleverly concealed pocket in her dress; apparently she had been expecting this to some degree, and began tending to his battered face. "It is good to see you again… though you look _truly _awful."

"Bruises and blood are all the rage in the Free Marches." He told her; he tried to smirk playfully, but it wound up as a sort of a grimace, smiling hurt right now.

"Oh, really?" She grinned, playing along, "And I suppose the fashion also calls for scruffy beards, unkempt hair, and clothing with questionable stains? Why did no one tell me?" The poultice was cool against the pulsing heat of his bruises as her nimble fingers healed him with practiced ease until there was almost no pain left at all. Well, not physically, at any rate.

"Don't coddle him, Lily," Fergus rumbled from behind his desk. "You'll ruin all of my handiwork." She whirled away from her patient to glower at the Teyrn.

"Oh, so you're proud of yourself, are you?" She hissed at him, "It takes a _real_ man to beat down an already wounded, unarmed, and half-starved opponent."

"No…but he still deserved it," Fergus grumbled obstinately. He must have seen the rage building in her eyes though, for he hastily added. "I'll apologize if you want, of course. No need to get yourself riled and upset the baby."

"Then do so." Leliana commanded coldly. To this, the Teyrn murmured something Alistair found quite unintelligible, but it seemed to appease the red head, who walked behind the desk, where Fergus rose and yielded the chair to her.

"Baby?" The Ex-Warden asked, stumbling up from his crouched position to stare at her.

"Four months along now," She beamed at him, placing a pale hand against the slight swell of her abdomen. The pregnant bard gestured for him to pull up the chair placed near the doorway and sit across from her.

"Whose?" Was all her former companion managed to get out as he slumped down in his seat, all of this was just too strange to fathom.

"Well, mine of course," Leliana giggled at him, "and my husband's." She sent an overly warm glance up at Fergus and he responded with a brief caress of her jaw and running his fingers along her white throat with a look in his eyes that was almost indecent.

"_You're_ the Teyrna?" Alistair exclaimed. She merely nodded, still smiling broadly, but looking a bit sheepish as well. He stared at her like she was the strangest thing he had ever seen, which was untrue, since he was pretty sure that running into his should-be-dead former lover and her pet assassin in the backstreets of Highever topped the list for right now. He had so many questions that he didn't even have the faintest idea of where to start.

"How long have you…When did you?" It seemed coherent speech was beyond his mental capacities today.

"Just under five years." Leliana supplied, guessing at his intent. "We got married shortly after Duncan was born."

"We got married _because_ Duncan was born." Fergus corrected blithely. Alistair simply stared at them for a moment, something dark and hateful welling in his heart as he drank in the picture of everything he could never have; the tenderness and contentment in the Teyrn's face that was _so_ achingly like his sibling's made the ragged ruined man before them nearly sick with envy.

"But perhaps we should start at the beginning," Leliana said hesitantly, perhaps catching something of the jealousy in her former comrade's eyes.

'_The beginning'_, Alistair wondered idly where that had been. At one time he had thought it had all started with that slightly faded flower and some fumbled words, but now he wasn't so sure. Maybe it started the first time he had been bold enough -_stupid _enough- to kiss her, or maybe it went back farther, when he had realized that his heart made a strange sort of squirming in his chest every time he caught her smiling at him. Or perhaps it all went back to Ostagar, to the instant he had seen the sunlight catch in her golden hair for the first time, her face tight and ashen, her wide blue eyes so incredibly _lost_. Which one was the moment that had sealed his fate, had doomed him to fall for this woman who was so brilliantly manipulative that if someone had told him that one day she would betray him, would tear out his still beating heart from his chest, and _in front_ of people, he would have beaten them to a bloody pulp before walking away laughing at the sheer ridiculousness of such a notion.

"Wynne told us what happened…" The Teyrna's lightly accented voice pierced his rambling thoughts, "at the landsmeet." Alistair glowered and said nothing. Leliana's eyes shifted about nervously, "I understand why you were angry, but…Why did you leave?"

"Are you _serious_?" The man in question exclaimed furiously, slamming his hand down on the desk in front of him, "Being a Grey Warden is supposed to be the highest calling- an _honor_- an order of the finest warriors, and she let that- that _filth_ become one of us. After everything he did to us, after all the times he tried to hunt us down and slaughter us, she let him _live_. She would have had me stand beside the man who killed my commander and my king and call him _brother_. I wouldn't do it- I _couldn't_."

"I seem to recall her sparing the life of quite a few people who tried to kill you, one of which is standing in this room, you did not feel the need to storm off in a rage then." Leliana said, her tone low and dark, and so unlike her normal self.

"I did object actually, and rather loudly too, but it doesn't matter, this was different." He growled, ignoring the dark looks the Teyrn was sending him, "Conscripting someone absolves them of all their previous crimes, after everything he did, poisoning Arl Eamon, the Mage's tower, Ostagar… She was just going to let him go- no _worse_ than that, she was going to let that murderer be remembered as a _hero_!"

"Elemmire had a kind and compassionate nature, if she could find a way to spare someone, she would." Fergus snapped at him, "If you loved her _half_ as much as everyone seems to think you did, you would know that. How could you hate her for something like mercy?"

"Don't you try to tell me how I feel or felt about _anything_," Alistair snarled right back, "What would you have said to her if she had let Howe live? The man who destroyed your home and butchered your family in the night? What if she had forgiven him and became engaged to his son? Would you have sat idly by and called that bastard's son your _brother_?"

"SILENCE!" Fergus bellowed, rounding the desk angrily, possibly to crunch a few more bones in the blond man's face.

"I _never_ would have asked her to show _Howe_ pity." Alistair continued to rage, despite a deadly-looking Cousland fisting his shirtfront and hauling him to his feet, "I _understood, _I didn't think so at first, but I know now; some people deserve death. It wasn't murder, it was _justice_, and she denied me the same right I had to take mine for the betrayal of Duncan and all of our brothers at Ostagar. He saved her _life_, and she let his death go unpunished."

Alistair could feel the sickening fury from that day slithering back inside him. Time and spirits could only mellow so much of the writhing swell of hurt and anger he had felt when she had ignored his pleas, and betrayed his trust. When the rumors of her death had reached him, he thought he could finally have peace, as awful as that sounded, and bury his pain alongside the one who had inflicted it. But she was alive, and she was here, and he had comforted her- _kissed_ her, after all those moments of _'I'll never forgive her'_ and _'I wish I could hate her'_ as he spent nearly six years miserably alone, pretending that he wasn't physically and mentally pining for her with every fiber of his being and placing the weight of her death solely on himself with damning thoughts like '_If I_ _had _been_ there_…' It was enough to make bile rise up in the back of his throat.

"Enough." Zevran said sharply from his place against the far bookshelf. "You are both wrong." Everyone in the room froze at his words, Alistair in particular was surprised that the Antivan would do or say anything that might save him from an additional beating.

"Our Warden was not being merciful, though I will not deny that it was her policy to save all who could be saved. Perhaps the girl you knew would have stayed her hand for mercy's sake alone, my dear Teyrn, but the Blight…it changes people, no?" He slowly glanced around at everyone in the room, watching them measure the truth in his words with his sharp tawny eyes.

"Did she tell you something, Zev?" Leliana asked, her voice soft, but her tone surprised.

"And if so, why didn't you tell us sooner?" Fergus rumbled.

"Because I swore not to." The Elf sighed, unfurling himself from his casual- looking lean against some of the Cousland's more expensive books and taking a few steps towards the center of the room, "It could have put you all in considerable danger if things had gone…_wrong_, which I suppose they did. It still might, truth be told, if Anora ever became suspicious about her father's death, though that seems unlikely. Outside of that, I held my tongue out of professionalism and respect."

Alistair's mind whirled at the implications hidden in the assassin's words, he could only draw one conclusion from them, but it seemed so completely _wrong_ when held up to everything he thought he had known about his former lover, that he couldn't form the words to speak his question aloud. As if reading his mind, the Teynra did it for him.

"Are you saying, Zevran," She began slowly, carefully, "that you were _hired_?"


	5. The Best Laid Plans

AN: Sooo, my editor hasn't had a chance to get to the end of this yet, so it might be a little buggy towards the end, but I was way too thrilled about finally finishing this chapter to not post it. So, here it is! I am so glad to be done with this conversation... you have no idea. A big thank you to all of my readers/ reviewers, as usual. I'm sorry I made you wait so long, and I hope you think it was worth it!

P.S. I think I can safely blame a large part of the delay of this chapter on my acquiring DA2. I find Fenris VERY distracting, even if I did miss Alibear somethin' turrabule. And then I had to start writing a DA2 fic... ugh. Sorry. Blame Bioware.

Disclaimer: as I am sure you are all well aware by now, Bioware owns DA:O, not I.

* * *

><p>The sky was drenched in stars. The cold air that signaled the end of autumn sharpened their gentle glow in the pitch black of the night. They crowded each other over the campsite of a band of unlikely companions heading west into the Frostback Mountains in search of a hidden village, a missing scholar, and the ashes of a dead prophet. It was the perfect scene for a story.<p>

This thought buzzed through the former lay sister's mind as she gently ran a brush through the pale golden locks of the girl sitting on the ground in front of her as she rested on a large log near the fire. These were the kind of perfect nights that slipped past you soundlessly, and the bard was determined to find precisely the right phrases to catch them and keep them forever. The only question that remained was what _kind_ of story would unfold.

Leliana studied the young woman before her, the curve of her neck, the pale orangey glow of her skin in the firelight, the way the too-large shirt she had 'borrowed' from her fellow Warden back when supplies were few and their coins precious hung off her slender form, exposing one smooth round shoulder to the cold night air…. Ellie was exactly how she had envisioned the heroines in all of the fairytales her mother used to tell her back in Orlais, brave, loyal, and utterly adorable.

The young Warden shuddered, her body snapping as tight as a bowstring, and at first the bard thought that the thinning blanket the girl had cocooned herself in was failing to keep out the biting cold winds that occasionally swept through the trees, but then she saw a figure emerging from the forest on the far side of their encampment. Alistair raised a hand in greeting, smiling at them sleepily as he headed towards his tent for the night. Several minutes slipped by, and Leliana noted that her friend's gaze had not wavered from where their comrade had disappeared beneath the oiled canvas. The bard smiled to herself, _'A love story then.' _

"You're in love." The Orlesian was surprised at how accusing, that statement sounded. Sure, she might have a bit of a crush on their fearless leader, but she was still surprised at the hint of bitterness at the back of her throat when she voiced her recent discovery. She pressed her eyes closed and squashed the slight feeling of disappointment. Ellie needed her as a friend, and that is what she would be. Besides, she genuinely liked Alistair too, and she felt if anyone deserved happiness, it was these two Grey Wardens.

"W-what?" Ellie stuttered in surprise, whipping her head around to glance back at the lay sister.

"Alistair," the redhead clarified with the beginnings of a wicked grin, "you love him, don't you?"

"W-what would make you think that?" the Warden asked, fumbling her words in embarrassment and trying to appear nonchalant despite the gradual darkening of her cheeks.

"Well, I'm not _blind_, for starters," Leliana teased lightly, " and the fact that you just agreed to wear a pink dress edged with lace the next time Bann Teagan invites us to dine at Redcliffe because you were too preoccupied with trying to burn a hole through his tent_ might_ have given you away." The Orlesian had never seen someone move from flushed to sickeningly pale in her entire life.

"_Pink_ with _lace_?" Elemmire exclaimed, clearly mortified, "Feed me to the darkspawn first!"

"No backing out of it now, you already said yes." The bard stated firmly. The blond moaned and slumped even farther into her tattered blanket. "Although…" the redhead began slowly, making the other girl perk up hopefully, "I _might_ be convinced to let you off the hook…."

"If?" Ellie asked, apprehension building in her voice.

"_If_ you spill the goods on you and Alistair." Leliana concluded triumphantly. The warrior sighed heavily before burying her face in her hands and grumbling something unintelligible and frustrated.

"What was that?" The rogue prodded in an annoying sing-song voice.

"I said there is nothing to tell!" The Warden growled in exasperation. The bard looked at her skeptically. "I mean, you're right, I _do_… at least I think I do… _ugh_! But Alistair and I…." She trailed off a bit, sounding sad, "We're just friends, no more, no less. Which is _fine_, it's as it should be; we don't have time for something as silly as a romantic entanglement, what with saving the world and all."

"You sound like you've worked very hard to convince yourself of that." Leliana observed quietly, smoothing the younger woman's hair back from her face affectionately, "You have a terrible burden, this is true, but you are still human, no one will condemn you for seeking some kind of happiness." Ellie's mouth quirked into a sardonic grin and her eyes went cold with an unwanted truth as she looked up at the Orlesian.

"Happiness is for the selfish, and love is for the free." The Warden told her smoothly, "Even_ if_ we miraculously manage to save the world and _not die_, we both have obligations that would keep us apart or at least distant enough to prevent any sort of real future… This is pointless folly; I do not wish to speak of it further."

"Don't pout." The bard scolded, "What did Alistair have to say when you told him this?"

"I haven't said anything to him, there is no need. Alistair… he doesn't think of me that way." Elemmire informed her glumly.

"Are you crazy?" Leliana exclaimed a little too loudly for Ellie's comfort, "He adores you, it's written all over his face! The man follows you around like a second mabari; I'm surprised Dagnir doesn't get jealous."

"That's exactly the problem." Elemmire groaned, "He _is_ like a mabari; he imprints on one person and that person is suddenly the sun and the moon and can do no wrong in his eyes. First it was Eamon, then Duncan, and now me…I think he would treat me the same if I were a man, to be perfectly honest."

"You think he would have kissed you like that if you were a man?" Leliana scoffed. The Warden went as red as a strawberry.

"T-that was an accident- a fluke! He just got caught up in the moment and…." Ellie tried to rationalize haltingly.

"How do you know he wasn't secretly yearning to kiss you and when you were suddenly thrust into his arms he found he could no longer resist?" The bard insisted.

"This isn't one of your stories, Leliana and if I'm so alluring why has he never tried again?" The blond girl groused.

"Perhaps he is waiting for you to make the next move?" The redhead suggested. "He loves you, Ellie. Why is that so hard to believe?"

"The only things Alistair loves are cheese, Ferelden, and being a Grey Warden." Ellie replied with an annoying amount of certainty.

"The man does have a disturbing fondness for dairy." The Orlesian conceded. "But I am a bit amazed at your complete obliviousness; it almost reminds me of your would-be beau."

"Gee, thanks." Ellie answered dryly.

"Everyone else knows." Leliana informed her, matter-of-factly. Ellie suddenly looked like she was going to be sick.

"_What_?" She choked out.

"You've never heard Morrigan gripe about the way he stares at you when he thinks you're not looking? She has been rather… _vocal_ with her complaints that he is going to make her vomit."

"She's been complaining that he makes her want to vomit since the day they met." Ellie said, "How… _does_ he look at me?" Leliana smiled broadly.

"My dearest Elemmire, Alistair looks at you the same way he looks at cheese."

* * *

><p>"You're <em>lying<em>." Alistair snarled at the blond Anitvan. Hiring someone- even a person she considered a friend- to murder an enemy was so sneaky, so _underhanded_…. He refused to sully his memories of her, those few golden precious things that had kept his heart beating on the good days and tormented him mercilessly on the bad. The ones where she smiled as they fought side by side in the sunshine and he had known that he was part of something greater, something _noble_…. It might seem strange, since she had stabbed him in the back, but perhaps that was the reason he wished to utterly refute the idea in the first place. He had spent years and years stewing in all of the despicable and manipulative plots she must have been cooking up since the moment she learned he was the heir to Ferelden's throne, and now that they might finally come to light, Alistair was terrified of the possibility that he could have been _right_.

"And, exactly _what_ reason would I have to do that?" The elf huffed at him in annoyance, folding his arms across his chest.

"You tell me." He replied, mimicking Zevran's stance as he glared at him, "You always did like trying to feed me bullshit."

"And you were always happy to take it from whoever was doling it out, so long as the patted you on the head first and told you what a good boy you were." The Antivan retorted with a sneer, "Do you really think I give a damn about _you_, Alistair? Revealing this has nothing to do with helping you and your poor wounded pride. I am saying it now because we need to know _everything_ about what happened in order to help someone I care for, and if breaking my promise also happens to make you pull your head out of your backside…that is just an added bonus, yes?"

Fergus looked like he was fighting to swallow his own tongue. It was clear that he was itching to defend his baby sister's honor, but that would have meant agreeing with Alistair, which he was more than a little loathe to do. The result was a strange combination of aggravation and disgust that made it seem as if the Teyrn was either about to be sick or tear someone's arms off. Luckily, his wife, ever ready mollify, stepped in before either one of those unpleasant outcomes could occur.

"I think I can see where this is going," She began, "but perhaps a bit more explanation is in order, Zev? You must admit, it doesn't really sound like something she would do."

"I confess; I was as surprised as you are when she told me of her plan for the landsmeet. I don't think she was entirely comfortable with the idea, but you know our Warden: anything for those she loves." Zevran replied with his signature cat-like grin and an air of false cheer. Leliana nodded, though her brow furrowed in worry. Only the Teyrn and the Bastard Prince still seemed to be left in the dark, shooting confused glances between the two rogues.

"The Blight was tearing her beloved nation to bits," The Antivan began, "Ferelden had no Warden Commander, no one with a firm grasp on the throne, and, thanks to our own efforts, no ruling lord seated in Highever's Terynir. Not to mention that if things went the way you and Arl Eamon were hoping, Alistair, there would have been no Teyrn to rule Gwaren either. Darkspawn or no, this land was about to plunge into outright chaos. Nobles could spend months, or even _years_ squabbling over this, and leave Ferelden to perish at the hands of darkspawn, Orlais, and the Qunari- just to list a _few_. Our dear Warden had one landsmeet and no time; she had to fix as much as she could with one fell swoop."

"So, she decided that the way to fix everything was to run me off, put Anora on the throne, and then have you stick a dagger in Loghain's ribs when his back was turned?" Alistair scoffed with more than a little disbelief, and an undercurrent of hurt. The thought that Ellie hadn't been seducing him just to make a grab at the throne eased his mind somewhat,_ if_ he was prepared to believe anything the smarmy elf had to say. However, it was almost just as bad to know that she'd thought he was not only so useless that he played no part in her plan, but that she hadn't even trusted him enough to tell him about it. Her and her stupid plans for swooping, he knew he had never liked swooping, it was _bad_.

"Don't be a fool," The elf chided harshly, "she never wanted you gone."

"Of course not," Leliana chimed in, "she _loved_ you, Alistair."

"She still does." Fergus added quietly.

"Riiight," Alistair answered, rolling his eyes, "because _that_ was soooo obvious! Following _that_ logic, it's a good thing we weren't married, or she might've told Anora to hang me!" Zevran threw his hands in the air and let loose a string of rather violent sounding Antivan.

"Morrigan was indeed speaking the truth all those times she accused you of being an idiot!" He raged at the human, "The Warden wanted to keep you off the throne so that you would still be eligible to be named Commander of the Grey!" At the stunned looked on his one time comrade's face, the elf continued muttering darkly in his native tongue and he stalked back over to the bookshelf he had previously been leaning on and slumped back against it in as stiff jerky motion that was completely out of character.

"The Warden Commander?" Alistair squeaked as badly as a preadolescent boy, "S-she wanted _me_ to…."

"Who else?" The elf snapped in annoyance.

"But…_she_ was always the leader. If anyone should have been Commander of the Grey…."

"We thought Fergus was dead." Leliana reminded him, "Naturally, She would have felt obligated to reclaim her family's Teyrnir. Am I right, Zevran?"

"You are as astute as ever, my Orlesian flower." The assassin replied with a curt nod and a curled lip.

"Alright, alright, so that might excuse her sudden change of heart concerning my Maker-given duty to wear uncomfortable clothing and talk circles around stuffy nobles for the rest of my life, but you still haven't explained why she thought that it was necessary to have you slip Loghain something deadly behind closed doors when we could have just killed him after that duel." Alistair pointed out, the heat in his voice fading into something like reluctant belief.

"The Queen is her father's daughter," Zevran answered simply. "How willing would Anora be to listen to the advice of the people who murdered her father? When the blight had passed, there was a very real possibility that she would seek revenge on both you AND the Wardens. Perhaps not _openly_, but…your queen is not known for her kind and forgiving nature."

"Not to mention the opinions of the other nobles," Fergus threw in, as he suddenly grasped the heart of his sister's plan, "Between Alistair as Warden Commander and Ellie as the Teyrna of Highever, they would have been two of the most important people in the country outside of the Queen herself, a Queen that _they_ placed on the throne in the first place!" Fergus let out a sudden booming laugh, "Those vultures would _never_ let Anora forget who put her there, and she would have needed your backing to maintain her power and credibility."

"Brilliant," Leliana breathed, the awe apparent in her voice, "Between the land the Queen granted the Wardens in Amaranthine, the rest of the teyrnir of Highever, and undoubtedly, the constant support of Eamon and Teagan, there would be almost nothing of note done in Ferelden without say from at least _one_ of you."

"The best place to rule from is _behind_ the throne." The tan elf grinned, "It has worked rather well for a certain group of assassins I once heard of."

"She couldn't have known Anora would give the arling to the Wardens, surely." Alistair persisted, trying in vain to find holes in what was sounding more and more like a sensible plan.

"Perhaps not," Fergus amended, "But Anora would be a fool not to grant the Wardens land somewhere after the Blight, and I think we all knew she wasn't about to hand them Gwaren."

"But- but…" Alistair floundered a bit helplessly, "Why did she have to make him a _Warden_? And…why couldn't she tell me about all this? I told her _everything_...Why…?" He trailed off as he felt his face twist into an all too familiar bitter grimace and his hand began itching for a bottle of something dark and mind-numbing to block out things like failure, and guilt, and misplaced trust.

"To your first question, I can only offer speculation." The elf replied, shrugging his shoulders, "But the second I can answer with a great deal of certainty; I told her not to tell you."

"You, WHAT?" The Ex-Warden raged.

"Oh, _Zevran_." Leliana sighed in what was clearly disappointment, as she leaned her elbows on the desk and placed her face in her hands, shaking her head.

"What?" The Antivan asked defensively. "He was a liability and you _know_ it, Leliana. Do not pretend otherwise simply to spare his feelings."

"Who are you calling a liability?" Alistair huffed; secretly glad to get back to something close to anger. It was a much safer emotion than the black grief that had been creeping up on him moments before.

"Surely, you jest." The elf snorted at him. "When in came to subtly and tact, you were always the proverbial millstone around our necks! 'Oh, here comes the Templar, three steps behind everyone else, to blurt out something obvious that no one else wanted to say!' At least the dwarf was passed out most of the time, or simply ignored anything that had to do with strategy, it was much better than your fumbled attempts at 'helping'. Face it Alistair, you are a terrible liar, you could not

pull off a bluff to save your life, everything you feel is written all over your face, just like everything you think has to come bumbling out of your mouth. One word of our plans for Loghain to you, and we might as well have written him a declaration of our intent!"

"That is _enough_, Zevran. You've had your say, and then some." The Teyrna admonished sharply.

"Maybe you missed the part where I was a member of an order that is rather infamous for keeping secrets." Alistair bit out harshly.

"Maybe _you_ missed the part where you didn't actually seem to know anything of use about said order! Obviously, the commander you were always mooning about didn't trust you with anything important either!" The elf retorted.

"STOP!" Fergus boomed, rubbing circles at his temples in frustration, "Bickering like children will solve nothing. What's done is done, we cannot change it now."

"That was…remarkably grown up of you, Fergus." Leliana blinked up at him in surprise.

"Yes, well…it has been known to happen on occasion. I was related to this rather remarkable woman, and she had a knack for soothing petty squabbles. Must run in the family." He shrugged.

"Your sister was an amazing diplomat; I lost count of how many times she had to convince Morrigan not to turn Alistair into something green and slimy." His wife told him fondly, but the Teyrn just laughed.

"Oh, you thought I meant_ Ellie_? No, no…half the time she was the _cause_ of the petty squabbles. I meant our mother; it takes real talent to calm a raging Bann when your daughter has just beaten his son to a bloody pulp." Fergus grinned. The bard giggled and the tension in the room lessened, if only a little.

"If I were to hazard a guess about why she chose to make him a Warden," Fergus continued after a brief pause, "I would assume it was because it seemed like a less suspicious option to either kill or gain control over then Teyrn. From what little I know of the Grey Wardens, the joining is fairly dangerous, yes?" Alistair nodded in reluctant agreement. "And if he were to somehow survive becoming a Grey Warden, he would still be under both you and Ellie's direct command as the junior member of the order, right?"

"I see you have reached the same conclusions I did, my dear Teyrn." Zevran smiled smugly, "I have always assumed that it was her plan to sabotage Loghain's joining in some way, tipping the odds from merely 'dangerous' to something more like 'lethal', with my assistance, of course. And if something had gone awry and he did become a Warden, why it would have been all too easy to take him out somewhere along the road and make it look like a darkspawn attack."

Leliana glanced worriedly at the tortured figure sitting across the desk from her; he looked as though he'd aged ten years within the last five minutes. She reached out to touch him lightly on his arm as he buried his face in his hands in what she could only assume was abject self loathing.

"We were all surprised when she came back from the landsmeet alone; no one beyond Zevran knew of this plan, none of us knew what would happen. Most of us were mad at her for _days_, I know I was. Wynne hardly talked to her after that…" She tried to soothe him.

"But you still stayed. You all stayed…" He said miserably, "Even though you didn't have to."

"Didn't _have_ to?" Leliana scoffed slightly, "There was a _Blight_ Alistair, and we were part of a quest, a _duty_."

"It was my duty before yours…even before hers, really. I was the senior Grey Warden after all…. A duty that cannot be foresworn…. A duty I abandoned." He continued hollowly.

"And finally, the dawn breaks, and the poor wounded lamb realizes that something might _actually_ be his fault." The Antivan sneered. The bard shot him a dangerous look.

"Alistair was the most likely to be hurt by this secret and you knew it!" She hissed at him, "And you are partially to blame for telling her to keep it from him!" The elf's eyes flashed threateningly as he stiffened at her accusation.

"He was also the one who would be the first into the hangman's noose if our plot was discovered!" The blond argued fiercely, "Whom would they suspect the most of making a mad grab for power and killing Loghain, if not the one and only 'Bastard Prince'? I did not do it out of cruelty; I merely assumed that nothing she said or did would be enough to chase the fool from her side, what with all that babbling about devotion and the open, doe-eyed affection. Clearly, I was wrong."

Leliana opened her mouth to continue bickering, but the man in question held up a weary hand to halt her. Fergus stood behind her, his naturally warm and open face gone strangely dark and cold.

"Please…just…_don't_." Alistair finally managed to get out. "He's right Leliana…. I'm not a child; I don't need your mothering, as much as I appreciate the effort. I promised her everything, and at the first true test of faith, I betrayed that trust. I should have known better…."

"Yes. You should have." The Teyrn confirmed bitterly. The redhead glanced up at her husband sharply before turning back to her old friend with what she hoped were comforting words.

"It was only natural for you to feel betrayed, we all did. Many of us acted in ways that we now regret after we found out what happened." She reasoned.

"But…I _loved_ her" He whispered feebly.

"You weren't the only one." The elf said sourly.

"We all did." Leliana agreed.

A heavy silence filled the room, the weight of someone who was lost to them. They were all drowning for a moment, breathless with the memories of a girl long gone. It was a girl who had looked up at her brother, sweaty and covered in dirt, glowing with triumph at winning her first tourney. This same girl would later giggle conspiratorially with an odd chantry sister, and have a kiss stolen by a golden haired elf on a frosty forest floor. And then she would become a woman in the arms of a man who claimed to love her, who had told her that all he had wanted from this life was to have her at his side. She would wake up each morning in their cramped little tent after a night of lovemaking, looking sated and sleepy, never dreaming that one day this man would walk away from her, would leave her to shoulder the burden of saving the world virtually alone. Never knowing he would leave her to die.

But she _isn't_ dead, and it suddenly dawned on him that they've been talking about her all this time as if she were. Alistair studied the other morose faces around the room and sees a deep seated kind of mourning that he's been staring at in the mirror for nearly six years. He remembered how she paused in the doorway of his room to look back at him, her blue eyes just as bottomless as ever and hazy with a yearning for something she's seen in him, even if she isn't quite sure _what_, and he suddenly realizes just _how much_ of her must be gone. And in a cruel and horrific kind of way, how it might be _worse_ than her being dead.

"How-" he began, but his voice splintered as he found himself suddenly pinned down by three sets of eyes, "What _happened_ to her?"

"We were rather hoping _you_ could tell _us_." Zevran replied, his tone as close to _not_ being spiteful as Alistair has heard thus far.

"Why would you think I would know?" The Ex-Warden asked, truly baffled. "I wasn't there, remember?"

"Only too well," came the bitter response. The noble couple groaned simultaneously at what seemed like a slip back into futile bickering.

"She didn't start showing symptoms until after the battle with the Arch-demon." Leliana explained hastily, before more mud slinging could occur.

"So, you are assuming this is a Grey Warden thing?" the blond human asked curiously. There was a series of affirming nods.

"Did she have a head wound?" he asked after a few moments of contemplation, "I've heard that in certain cases-" But he was interrupted by negative head shaking.

"After the battle," the bard started, her rich voice was unusually shaky as she began this tale, "Elemmire was…oh, _Alistair, _it was _awful_- There was blood _everywhere_, you could barely tell it was _her_ and-" But she broke off suddenly when she saw that the blood had drained from his face and glanced up at her husband, who was also looking alarmingly pale and even more grim faced than he was a moment ago. She took a deep rattling breath and tried again.

"Her injuries were…_gruesome_, to say the least, but nothing irreparable, at least, not for Wynne and an entire pack full of lyrium potions and health poultices." The redhead tried to sound lighthearted, as if it had happened to someone in one of her stories, and not to someone they had all known. "Outside of a few rather nasty-looking scars, she was expected to make a full recovery."

"She even got to the point of trying to bribe Sten with sweets if he helped her sneak past Wynne so she could escape bed rest." Zevran interjected fondly, causing a few scattered outbursts of hesitant laughter.

"The Qunari?" Fergus asked, chuckling dryly. "I can't imagine _that_ turned out well, she must have been _desperate_."

"_Bored_ out of her_ mind_." The elf confirmed, smiling.

"Wait," Alistair said suddenly, "If she survived the final battle, why did Anora announce publicly that she had died? Ellie was never one to run away from responsibility, and Maker knows, Ferelden could have used someone to turn to after _that_ mess- well, someone besides 'Harpy the Ice Queen: Destroyer of Men and Eater of All Things Cute and Helpless'."

"It was an arrangement she set up with Anora after the Landsmeet." Leliana explained, "She told her that she didn't want to stay in Ferelden after the final battle. She said she didn't want to hear them call her a hero…that she didn't deserve it." The blond man self-consciously scrubbed at the back of his head and frowned miserably at his boots for a few moments before mustering up the courage to continue his questioning.

"I can't believe that Anora agreed to something like that. I mean, I could understand that she'd be more than happy to keep Ellie as far away from the throne room as possible, in case any nobles got the idea that a Cousland would be a better monarch, but with all the clout she could have waved around for having a living, breathing Blight-stopper to shove in peoples faces…. I just can't see her passing that up." Alistair puzzled.

"Well, the Warden didn't give her much of a say in that regard." Zevran smirked.

"As soon as we were out of Denerim and on the way to Redcliffe, she told us that no matter what kind of state she was in, she wanted us to…ahem, _'haul my sorry ass out of there if I'm alive before that frigid bitch has a chance to catch wind of it,' _I believe was her exact phrasing." The red head clarified with a wry twist of her lips. Alistair snorted.

"We smuggled her out of Denerim as soon as Wynne said it was safe to move her. We told Anora that she had died from her injuries and that her final wish was to be taken to Highever, so that her spirit could join her family there. After that, we sent Ohgren and Sten back to report that the rest of us had been taken out by a large group of darkspawn that had broken away from the fleeing horde." Zevran explained.

"Ohgren and Sten? That's an… odd combination." Alistair commented.

"Ohgren had been offered a place in the Ferelden army, so he had to go back anyway. And Sten…well, he was _not_ happy about being asked to lie, but the closest port _was_ in the capital, and we figured that no one had the balls to accuse a Qunari of being untruthful." The elf told him.

"Shale had already left for Tevinter, claiming that things were boring now that there weren't any more darspawn to squish. I think she also figured we'd be a little more conspicuous with an eight foot tall statue following us everywhere…." Leliana added.

"What about Morrigan?" Alistair asked with a scowl.

"She disappeared the night before the final battle. We heard them arguing about something, but none of us know what… Ellie wouldn't say." Leliana replied

"See? You weren't the only one who ran out on her! At last, you and the swamp witch have something in common! You shall have so much to talk about, should you ever run into each other again." Zevran said snidely, Alistair merely glared at him.

"I believe she planned on crossing the Waking Sea when she reached Highever," Leliana said after shooting the Antivan her own sharp glance. "We assumed she was going to the Free Marches to look for you…." The almost Templar felt something tighten in the vicinity of his chest, and he had to pause and wonder what he would have done if she had come looking for him. Spat in her face most likely, but he _had_ wanted her apology…well, he supposed there was no way to know now.

"But she suddenly seemed to have some kind of relapse," The former bard continued, "Nausea, headaches, slight fevers, and most importantly, a terrifying number of blackouts. Wynne didn't know what to make of it. Even so, we weren't too worried; she was still healing from some serious injuries, so her immune system was weak, after all."

"And then one day, she woke up and asked me who I was," Zevran recited hollowly, his gaze far off and his tan face oddly palled. "I thought she was merely jesting, so I told her I was a murderous bandit, come to ravish her…she was _terrified_. So, I tried to rectify my mistake by telling her that we were good friends and introducing myself…she started _screaming_…." The elf looked as if he was about to vomit.

"I here you tend to have that effect on women." Alistair jabbed dryly, smirking at the Antivan's expense.

"It was no laughing matter!" The assassin snarled. "She was crying out in _pain_, not fear! She started having some kind of seizure…she was thrashing around like a madwoman and babbling nonsense." It was Alistair turn to look ill then.

"She only calmed down after we forced her to take a sleeping draught, and yet when Wynne checked her over all she found was the baby, which was a huge shock, believe you me, but nothing we could link to her memory lapses." The redhead said quietly, her clear blue eyes glazed with tears. The former Warden thought his brain must have quit on him for a moment.

"W-wait, you said she was…. _What_?" He stuttered, his throat suddenly feeling very dry, "That shouldn't be poss- Wait, did you…" He trailed off, gesturing at Zevran whilst managing to blush and look angry all at once. The elf merely rolled his eyes at him.

"You cannot be serious, surely?" He stated flatly, "It was a chore to convince her to _eat_ after you left, not even _I_ could have coerced her into bed."

"Not that he didn't _try_," Leliana quipped wryly.

"As a _joke_!" The Antivan insisted, sounding affronted.

"But that means…no. Two Gray Wardens shouldn't be _able_ to-" Alistair continued to stammer.

"My sister is very good at achieving things most people deem impossible, or so I'm lead to believe." Fergus cut him off, a ghost of a smile on his face.

"_Still_, it can't have…." He trailed off for a moment, lost. "What happened to it? The baby?" He asked in a small voice, his dark hazel eyes glazed with dread for his child's fate. The Teyrn seemed confused for some reason.

"I thought you said he met them both in the alley?" The eldest Cousland asked, looking at Zevran.

"And so he did." The elf confirmed.

"What?" Alistair asked, still clearly befuddled.

"Oh, come on, man! I fairly sure even Teagan figured it out after meeting him, though he's much too polite to say anything…." Fergus huffed impatiently. Leliana leaned across the desk to grasp Alistair's hand, in what he supposed was meant to be reassurance.

"Alistair," She said gently, "Duncan is your son."


End file.
